This is dedicated to

Joss Whedon,

who may never read it,

and his enthusiastic fans known as the

Buffybuds, who will.

We thank Marty and John at Tekno Books for their inspiration, encouragement, and full-service smoothing of the way; our agents, Joshua Bilmes (Charlaine) and Joan Brandt (Toni); and finally, Ginjer Buchanan at Ace, who agreed this might be a good idea. We also want to thank the authors who contributed their stories to this anthology though they knew their editors were novices. That’s trust for you.

When we were approached about editing this anthology, we were like two kids with a new toy. We had some wonderful planning sessions about the theme. We decided to pick two apparently unrelated concepts—vampires (the dead) and birthdays (celebrations of life)—and see what different ways some very talented writers could combine the two.

After the great fun of drawing up a dream list of contributors and receiving their stories, we had to buckle down to the actual work of editing. We imagined the work would be tedious, or nerve-wracking, or possibly (horrors) boring. But it wasn’t. Every day a new story arrived was like—well, like a birthday.

It’s amazing what creative minds can do with the same theme. None of these stories are the same. Some of them are funny, and some of them are tragic, but all of them are fascinating. Read and enjoy.

CHARLAINE HARRIS

TONI L. P. KELNER

Charlaine Harris, New York Times bestselling author of the Sookie Stackhouse series, also writes books about Harper Connelly, a lightning-struck corpse locator. Charlaine has won the Anthony, the Sapphire, and two Romantic Times Reviewers’ Choice awards. She lives in a small town in Arkansas with her husband, a duck, three dogs, and three children. Her website is simply www.charlaineharris.com, and she tries real hard to keep it up-to-date.

I found the invitation in the mailbox at the end of my driveway. I had to lean out of my car window to open it, because I’d paused on my way to work after remembering I hadn’t checked my mail in a couple of days. My mail was never interesting. I might get a flyer for Dollar General or Wal-Mart, or one of those ominous mass mailings about pre-need burial plots.

Today, after I’d sighed at my Entergy bill and my cable bill, I had a little treat: a handsome, heavy, buff-colored envelope that clearly contained some kind of invitation. It had been addressed by someone who’d not only taken a calligraphy class but passed the final with flying colors.

I got a little pocketknife out of my glove compartment and slit open the envelope with the care it deserved. I don’t get a lot of invitations, and when I do, they’re usually more Hallmark than watermark. This was something to be savored. I pulled out the stiff folded paper carefully, and opened it. Something fluttered into my lap: an enclosed sheet of tissue. Without absorbing the revealed words, I ran my finger over the embossing. Wow.

I’d strung out the preliminaries as long as I could. I bent to actually read the italic typeface.

Christopher Golden is the author of novels including The Myth Hunters, Wildwood Road, and Of Saints and Shadows, and the Body of Evidence series of teen thrillers. With Thomas E. Sniegoski, he is the coauthor of the dark fantasy series The Menagerie, the young readers fantasy series OutCast, and the comic book miniseries Talent. Golden was born and raised in Massachusetts, where he still lives with his family. He is currently collaborating with Hellboy creator Mike Mignola to write Baltimore, or, the Steadfast Tin Soldier and the Vampire. Please visit him at www.christophergolden.com.

On a warm, late summer’s night, Donika Ristani sat on the roof outside her open window—fat-bellied acoustic guitar in her hands—and searched for the chords that would bring life to the music she knew lay within her. The shingles were warm from the sun, though an hour had passed since dusk, and the smell of tar and cut grass filled her with a pleasant summery feeling that kept her normally flighty spirit from drifting into fancy.

The radio played in her room, competing with the music of the woods around the house—the crickets and owls and rustling things—which grew to a crescendo as though attempting to draw her down amongst the trees. Her fingers plucked and strummed, for she despised the use of a pick, and she discovered a third melody that created a kind of balance between the radio and the woods, the inside and outside.

Joe Jackson sang “Is She Really Going Out with Him?” Donika liked the song well enough, but her thoughts were elsewhere, thinking about inside and outside—about the person she was for her mother’s sake, and the person that all of her instincts told her she ought to be. She found herself strumming Harry Chapin’s “Taxi,” lost in her head, and singing along to the weird bridge in the middle of the tune.

I’ve been letting my outside tide me over ’til my time runs out.

The truth frustrated the hell out of her and she brought her right hand down on the strings to stop herself playing another note of that song. Her gaze drifted down her driveway to the darkened ribbon of Blackberry Lane, searching for headlights, for some sign of her mother’s return. Without so much as a glimmer from the road, she looked out across the thick woods north of the house, impatient to be down there, following the path to Josh Orton’s house. He’d be waiting already, and she could practically feel his arms around her, his face nuzzling her throat.

Donika laughed softly at herself; or perhaps she sighed. She couldn’t tell the difference sometimes.

The DJ did his cool voice and introduced the next tune. Donika smiled and started playing the first notes on her acoustic before it even started on the radio. Bad Company. “Rock and Roll Fantasy.” Good song. Her bedroom walls were covered with posters for Pink Floyd, Zeppelin, and Sabbath, but she liked a little bit of everything. Most of her girlfriends would have laughed at some of the stuff she sang along to on the radio. Or maybe not. Hell, most of them thought Donna Summer the pinnacle of musical achievement.

Now she wished she’d listened more closely to the Joe Jackson tune. She might have to break into her babysitting stash to buy that album.

Her fingers moved up and down the frets, playing Bad Company by ear. She’d never played the song before, but the guitar was like an extension of herself and picking out the notes presented no greater difficulty than singing along. The crickets had gotten louder, but she managed not to hear them. The radio crackled a bit; some kind of interference, maybe the weather or a passing jet. She didn’t understand such things very well. Turn on the box, the music came out. What else did she need to know?

The heat of the day still lingered in her skin the same way it did in the shingles. No more sticky humidity, so that was nice. She felt comfortably warm up there in her spaghetti strap tank top and cutoff jeans, as if the sun had gotten down inside her instead of setting over the horizon, and it would hide there until morning.

Owls cried out in the woods, and Donika glanced up, searching the trees as though she might spot one, the strings of her guitar momentarily forgotten. Other people thought they were funny birds, but she had always heard something else in their hooting, a terrible sadness that she wanted to answer with her own frustrations.

A flash of light came from the road. She watched the headlights move along Blackberry Lane and her breath caught as she thought of Josh again. When the car drove by without slowing, she sighed and lay against the slanted roof, the shingles rough and hot against her back. She hugged the guitar and wondered if Josh was sitting outside, waiting for her, or if he was up in his room listening to music on his bed. Both images had their appeal.

Somehow she missed the sound of an approaching engine and looked up only as light washed across the trees and she heard tires rolling up the driveway. Donika sat forward as her mother’s ancient Dodge Dart putted up to the house. When she turned off the engine, it ticked and popped, and then the door creaked open.

“Get off that roof, ’Nika!”

The girl laughed. The woman had eyes like a hawk, even in the dark.

She slipped in through her bedroom window and put away her guitar before going downstairs. Her mother stood in the kitchen, looking through the day’s mail. Qendressa Ristani had lush black hair like her daughter, but streaked with gray. She wore it pulled back tightly. Though her mother was nearly fifty, Donika thought her hairstyle too severe, more appropriate for a grandmother. Her clothes reflected the same sensibility, which probably explained why she never dated. Though she’d given up wearing black a decade or so back, Donika’s mother still saw herself as a widow. Men might flirt with her—she was prettier than most women her age—but Qendressa would not encourage them. She’d been widowed young, and had no desire to replace the only man she had ever loved.

Her life was the seamstress shop where she worked in downtown Jameson, and the home she’d made for herself and her daughter upon coming to America a dozen years before. But her Old World upbringing still persisted in many ways, not the least of which was her insistence on using herbs and oils as homegrown remedies for all sorts of ills, both physical and spiritual.

“How was your day, Ma?”

“Eh,” the woman said, “is the same.”

Donika grabbed her sandals and sat down at the table, slipping one on. Her mother dropped the mail on the table. As she slipped on her sandals, she looked up to find her mother staring at her.

“Where you going?”

“Josh’s. Sue and Carrie and a couple of Josh’s friends are there already waiting for me. We’re going to walk into town for pizza.”

“You going to hang around those boys dressed like that?”

Donika flushed with anger and stood up, the chair scraping backward on the floor.

“Look, Ma, you need to get off this stuff. This is 1979, not 1950, and we’re in Massachusetts, not Albania. You want me to be home when you get back from work so you won’t worry about me? Okay, I sort of understand that. I don’t like it, but I get it. But look around. I don’t dress differently from other girls. Turn on the TV once in a while—”

“TV,” her mother muttered in disgust, averting her eyes.

“I’m going to be sixteen tomorrow,” Donika protested.

Qendressa Ristani sniffed. “This is supposed to make me less worried? This is why I worry!”

“Well, don’t! I’m fine. Just let me enjoy being sixteen, okay?”

The woman hesitated, taking a long breath, and then she nodded slowly and waved her daughter away. “Go. Be a good girl, ’Nika. Don’t make me shamed.”

“Have I ever?”

Finally, her mother smiled. “No. Never.” Her expression turned serious. “Tomorrow, we celebrate, though. Yes? Just the two of us, all the things you love for dinner. You can have your friends over on Friday and we have a cake. But, tomorrow, just us girls.”

Donika smiled. “Just us girls.”

Bill Crider is the author of fifty published novels and numerous short stories. He won the Anthony Award for best first mystery novel in 1987 for Too Late to Die and was nominated for the Shamus Award for best first private-eye novel for Dead on the Island. He won the Golden Duck award for best juvenile science fiction novel for Mike Gonzo and the UFO Terror. He and his wife, Judy, won the best short story Anthony in 2002 for their story “Chocolate Moose.” His latest novel is Murder Among the OWLS. Check out his home page at www.billcrider.com.

If you really want to hear about it, which a lot of people do, being naturally curious, you probably want to know where I was born, and what I was like as a kid, and how I wound up living (in a manner of speaking) under a bridge, and all that Catcher in the Rye kind of crap, but I just don’t feel like talking about any of that right now, and anyway it’s not all that interesting, to tell you the truth.

I’ll tell you how I got to be a goddam vampire, though. That’s pretty interesting. It was all because of my sister, Kate, who you’d think would know better, for Crissake, because she was practically a high school graduate, but then there aren’t a lot of geniuses in my family, including me, although I did make a pretty good grade in a civics class one year.

Kate can’t take all the blame. If she’d never seen those movies, it might have been different. It wasn’t my fault, though. I was just an innocent bystander.

Anyway, being a vampire isn’t as much fun as you might think it is. I mean, you probably think it’s all about the cape and the gleaming white fangs and the ripping good times you could have after the goddam sun goes down. Or maybe you don’t think that, but that’s what I thought, which shows how much I knew because I was wrong. Dead wrong, just to throw in a little vampire humor there.

What happened is that my sister was planning this big party for her eighteenth birthday, which happened to be on Halloween, and she wanted it to be really special. My crummy parents said she could do whatever she pleased, which is what they always said when she asked for anything because they liked her best. You probably think that’s just sour grapes, but it’s not that. It’s just the way it was, and it never bothered me because I was used to it, after all.

What she wanted was a vampire.

“Like Christopher Lee,” Kate said. She has this way of brushing her hair back out of her eyes when she talks, which is frankly pretty irritating, but she thinks it’s cute and that the boys like it. I don’t know about other boys, but it just seems phony to me. “Like that movie we saw last year, Horror of Dracula.”

She went to a lot of movies like that. I Was a Teenage Werewolf. I Was a Teenage Frankenstein. But she liked stuff with vampires best. They’d never made one called I Was a Teenage Vampire or she would have been first in line.

“You know,” Kate said. “Remember what the ads said? ‘The chill of the tomb won’t leave your blood for hours.’”

She tried to say the last part in a deep, creepy voice but it wasn’t deep, and it wasn’t creepy. It was just phony.

“You don’t have to laugh,” she said, because I couldn’t help it. “It’s your stupid friend Binky who says he knows a real vampire.”

“Binky wouldn’t know a vampire if it bit him in the ass,” I said, which I knew was a pretty crude thing to say, even to my sister, but I was getting tired of the way she was brushing at her hair. Besides, I was wrong, as it turned out. “And he’s not my friend.”

“Well, he’s certainly not my friend,” she said. “And you don’t have to use that kind of language.”

Binky wasn’t really anybody’s friend. He was just this guy that was always coming around, wanting to be somebody’s friend and making cracks like he thought they were jokes, but nobody ever laughed at them. He had a pointy nose that was always dripping, and big sad eyes, and hair that he needed to wash a whole lot more often than he did. He hardly ever smiled because he had pretty dingy teeth and he didn’t use his tube of Ipana any too regularly, at least as far as I could tell.

He’d told me about this vampire that he’d met. It was supposed to be this big hairy secret just between me and him because we were such good friends. That’s what he thought, anyway. But Kate had wormed it out of me. She has a way of doing that. I never should have told her, but I did, and there was nothing I could do to change that.

“I guess if anybody knows a real vampire, it’s Binky,” Kate said. Her name’s really Katherine, but she thinks Kate is sophisticated or something. “Anyway, he says he does, and that’s what I need to make the party perfect.”

She should never have gone to see that movie, is what I think. Now she had the idea that a party with the girls dressed up in filmy nightgowns and guys looking like Igor or whatever his name was would be just the ticket. But she said it just wouldn’t work unless she had a vampire to liven things up.

“Maybe Dad could be the vampire,” I said. “He likes to dress up and stuff. He even has a tuxedo.”

“That’s so passé,” she said, brushing back her hair. I thought what she ought to do was cut off her bangs, but nobody ever asked me about stuff like that. “And Dad would make a terrible vampire.”

She was right about that. He was more the Mr. Peepers type, and he seemed to be getting more that way all the time, which might have been because our mother was a lot like Rip Van Winkle’s wife in that story we had to read at school.

“So that’s why you have to talk to Binky,” Kate said. This time she flipped her hair out of her eyes by tossing her head, which was even more irritating than if she’d used her hand. “If there’s a real vampire around, it would make the party just perfect. Will you do it?”

“A real vampire would be pretty dangerous,” I said. I didn’t even believe in vampires, and I thought Binky was full of crap. I was just trying to get her to shut up. I should have known better. Nobody could get Kate to shut up.

“We’ll have garlic and crosses and holy water,” she said. “It won’t be dangerous.”

“That stuff never works in the movies.”

“You don’t know anything. You don’t really like those movies. You think they’re not intellectual.”

“I never said that,” I told her, and it was the truth, even if she was right about what I thought.

“You didn’t have to say it. You sit around and observe everybody, like you think you’re better than us. But you’re not. You just like to think so.”

I couldn’t remember ever winning an argument with Kate, and I knew she’d never let up (she was a lot like our mother that way) so I finally said I’d talk to Binky if she’d do my geometry problems for a week. Not that I couldn’t do them myself, which I could, but I had to get something from her or she’d think she had the upper hand on me, which she didn’t, not really.

She thought she was a whiz at geometry, so she said she’d do the problems, and of course that meant I had to talk to Binky whether I wanted to or not.

Kelley Armstrong is the author of the Women of the Otherworld paranormal suspense series. A former computer programmer, she’s now escaped her corporate cubicle, but she puts her old skills to work on her website at www.KelleyArmstrong.com.

Another life taken. Another year to live.

That is the bargain that rules our existence. We feed off blood, but for three hundred and sixty-four days a year, it is merely that: feeding. Yet on that last day—or sometime before the anniversary of our rebirth as vampires—we must drain the lifeblood of one person. Fail and we begin the rapid descent into death.

As I sipped white wine on the outdoor patio, I watched the steady stream of passersby. Although there was a chill in the air—late autumn coming fast and sharp—the patio was crowded, no one willing to surrender the dream of summer quite yet. Leaves fluttering onto the tables were lauded as decorations. The scent of a distant wood fire was willfully mistaken for candles. The sun, almost gone despite the still early hour, only added romance to the meal. All embellishments to the night, not signs of impending winter.

I sipped my wine and watched night fall. At the next table, a lone businessman eyed me. He was the sort of man I often had the misfortune to attract: middle-aged and prosperous, laboring under the delusion that success and wealth were such irresistible lures that he could allow his waistband and jowls to thicken unchecked.

Under other circumstances, I might have returned the attention, let him lead me to some tawdry motel, then taken my dinner. He would survive, of course, waking weakened, blaming it on too much wine. A meal without guilt. Any man who took such a chance with a stranger—particularly when he bore a wedding band—deserved an occasional bout of morning-after discomfort.

He did not, however, deserve to serve as my annual kill. I can justify many things, but not that. Yet I found myself toying with the idea more than I should have, prodded by a niggling voice that told me I was already late.

I stared at the glow over the horizon. The sun had set on the anniversary of my rebirth, and I hadn’t taken a life. Yet there was no need for panic. I would hardly explode into dust at midnight. I would weaken as I began the descent into death, but I could avoid that simply by fulfilling my bargain tonight.

I measured the darkness, deemed it enough for hunting, then laid a twenty on the table and left.

Jim Butcher is the author of The Dresden Files and the Codex Alera series. A martial arts enthusiast, Jim enjoys fencing, singing, bad science fiction movies, and live-action gaming. He lives in Missouri with his wife, son, and a vicious guard dog.

“Hey, Miyagi-san,” my apprentice said. Her jeans still dripped with purple-brown mucus. “You think the dry cleaners can get this out?”

I threw my car keys down on my kitchen counter, leaned my slimed, rune-carved wooden staff next to them, and said, “The last time I took something stained by a slime golem to a cleaner, the owner burned his place down the next day and tried to collect on the insurance.”

Molly, my apprentice, was just barely out of her teens, and it was impossible not to notice what great legs she had when she stripped out of her trendily mangled jeans. She wrinkled her nose as she tossed them into the kitchen trash can. “Have I told you how much I love the wizard business, Harry?”

“Neither of us is in the hospital, kid. This was a good day at work.” I took my mantled leather duster off. It was generously covered in splatters of the sticky, smelly mucus as well. I toted it over to the fireplace in my basement apartment, which I keep going during the winter. Given that I have to live without the benefits of electricity, it’s necessary. I made sure the fire was burning strongly and tossed the coat in.

“Hey!” Molly said. “Not the coat!”

“Relax,” I told her. “The spells on it should protect it. They’ll bake the slime hard and I’ll chisel it off tomorrow.”

“Oh, good. I like the coat.” The girl subsided as she tossed her secondhand combat boots and socks into my trash after her ruined jeans. She was tall for a woman and built like a schoolboy’s fantasy of the Scandinavian exchange student. Her hair was shoulder length and the color of white gold, except for the tips, which had been dyed in a blend of blue, red, and purple. She’d lost a couple of the piercings she’d previously worn on her face, and was now down to only one eyebrow, one nostril, her tongue, and her lower lip. She went over to the throw rug in the middle of my living room floor, hauled it to one side, and opened the trapdoor leading down to my lab in the subbasement. She lit a candle in the fire, wrinkling her nose at the stink from the greasy smoke coming up from my coat, and padded down the stepladder stairs into the lab.

Mouse, my pet Sabertoothed Retriever, padded out of my bedroom and spread his doggy jaws in a big yawn, wagging his shaggy gray tail. He took one step toward me, then froze as the smell of the mucus hit his nose. The big gray dog turned around at once and padded back into the bedroom.

“Coward!” I called after him. I glanced up at Mister, my tomcat, who drowsed upon the top of my heaviest bookshelf, catching the updraft from the fireplace. “At least you haven’t deserted me.”

Mister glanced at me, and then gave his head a little shake as the pungent smoke from the fireplace rose to him. He flicked his ears at me, obviously annoyed, and descended from the bookshelf with gracefully offended dignity to follow Mouse into the relative aromatic safety of my bedroom.

“Wimp,” I muttered. I eyed my staff. It was crusty with the ichor. I’d have to take it off with sandpaper and repair the carvings. I’d probably have to do the blasting rod, too. Stupid freaking amateurs, playing with things they didn’t understand. Slime golems are just disgusting.

Molly thumped back up the stairs, now dressed in her backup clothes. Her experiences in training with me had taught her that lesson about six months in, and she had a second set of clothing stored in a gym bag underneath the little desk I let her keep in the lab. She came up in one of those black broomstick skirts that’s supposed to look wrinkled and Doc Martens, inappropriate for the winter weather but way less inappropriate than black athletic panties. “Harry, are you going to be able to drive me home?”

I frowned and checked the clock. After nine. Too late for a young woman to trust herself to Chicago’s public transportation. Given Molly’s skills, she probably wouldn’t be in any real danger, but it’s best not to tempt fate. “Could you call your folks?”

She shook her head. “On Valentine’s Day, are you kidding? They’ll have barricaded themselves upstairs and forced the older kids to wear the little ones out so that they’ll sleep through the noise.” Molly shuddered. “I’m not interrupting them. Way too disturbing.”

“Valentine’s Day,” I groaned. “Dammit.”

“What?”

“Oh, I forgot, what with the excitement. It’s, uh, someone’s birthday. I got them a present and wanted to get it to them today.”

“Oh?” Molly chirped. “Who?”

I hesitated for a minute, but Molly had earned a certain amount of candor—and trust. “Thomas,” I said.

“The vampire?” Molly asked.

“Yeah,” I said.

“Wow, Harry,” she said, blue eyes sparkling. “That’s odd. I mean, why would you get him a birthday present?” She frowned prettily. “I mean, you didn’t get my dad one, and you’re friends with him, and he’s a Knight of the Sword and one of the good guys, and he’s saved your life about twenty times and all.”

“More like four times,” I said testily. “And I do Christmas for hi—”

Molly was looking at me, a smug smile on her face.

“You figured it out,” I said.

“That Thomas was your brother?” Molly asked innocently. “Yep.”

I blinked at her. “How?”

“I’ve seen you two fight.” She lifted both pale eyebrows. “What? Have you seen how many brothers and sisters I have? I know my sibling conflicts.”

“Hell’s bells,” I sighed. “Molly—”

She lifted a hand. “I know, boss. I know. Big secret; safe with me.” Her expression turned serious, and she gave me a look that was very knowing for someone so young. “Family is important.”

I’d grown up in a succession of orphanages and foster homes. “Yeah,” I said, “it is.”

She nodded. “So you haven’t given family presents much. And your brother doesn’t exactly have a ton of people bringing him presents on his birthday, does he?”

I just looked at her for a second. Molly was growing up into a person I thought I was going to like.

“No,” I said, quietly. “I haven’t and he doesn’t.”

“Well then,” she said, smiling. “Let’s go give him one.”

P. N. Elrod has sold more than twenty novels and as many short stories and is best known for The Vampire Files series, featuring undead detective Jack Fleming. She’s cowritten three novels with actor/director Nigel Bennett, has edited and coedited several genre collections, and is an incurable chocoholic. More news on her toothy titles may be found at www.vampwriter.com.

CHICAGO, FEBRUARY 1937

When the girl draped in black stepped in to ask if I could help her with a séance, Hal Kemp’s version of “Gloomy Sunday” began to murmur sadly from the office radio.

Coincidences annoy me. A mournful song for a dead sweetheart put together with a ceremony that’s supposed to help the dead speak with the living made me uneasy—and I was annoyed it made me uneasy.

I should know better, being dead myself.

“You sure you’re in the right place?” I asked, taking in her outfit. Black overcoat, pocketbook, gloves, heels, and stockings—she was a walking funeral. Along with the mourning weeds she wore a brimmed hat with a chin-brushing veil even I couldn’t see past.

“The Escott Agency—that’s what’s on the door,” she said, sitting on the client chair in front of the desk without an invitation. “You’re Mr. Escott?”

“I’m Mr. Fleming. I fill in for Mr. Escott when he’s elsewhere.” He was visiting his girlfriend tonight. I’d come over to his office to work on his books since I was better at accounting.

“It was Mr. Escott who was recommended to me.”

“By who?”

“A friend.”

I waited, but she left it at that. Much of Escott’s business as a private agent came by word of mouth. Call him a private eye and you’d get a pained look and perhaps an acerbic declaration that he did not undertake divorce cases. His specialty as an agent was carrying out unpleasant errands for the unable or unwilling, not peeking through keyholes, but did a séance qualify? He was interested in that kind of thing, but mostly from a skeptic’s point of view. I had to say mostly since he couldn’t be a complete skeptic what with his partner—me—being a vampire.

And nice to meet you, too.

Hal Kemp played on in the little office until the girl stood, went to the radio, and shut it off.

“I hate that song,” she stated, turning around, the veil swirling lightly. Faceless women annoy me as well, but she had good legs.

“Me, too. You got any particular reason?”

“My sister plays it all the time. It gets on my nerves.”

“Does it have to do with this séance?”

“Can’t you call Mr. Escott?”

“I could, but you didn’t make an appointment for this late or he’d be here.”

“My appointment is for tomorrow, but something’s happened since I made it, and I need to speak with him tonight. I came by just in case he worked late. The light was on and a car was out front….”

I checked his appointment book. In his precise hand he’d written 10 am, Abigail Saeger. “Spell that name again?”

She did so, correct for both.

“What’s the big emergency?” I asked. “If this is something I can’t handle, I’ll let him know, but otherwise you’ll find I’m ready, able, and willing.”

“I don’t mean to offend, but you look rather young for such work. Over the phone I thought Mr. Escott to be…more mature.”

Escott and I were the same age but I did look younger by over a decade. On the other hand if she thought a man in his midthirties was old, then she’d be something of a kid herself. Her light voice told me as much, though you couldn’t tell by her mannerisms and speech, which bore a finishing school’s not so subtle polish.

“Miss Saeger, would you mind raising your blinds? I like to see who’s hiring before I take a job.”

She went still a moment, then lifted her veil. As I thought, a fresh-faced kid who should be home studying, but her eyes were red-rimmed, her expression serious.

“That’s better. What can I do for you?”

“My older sister, Flora, is holding a séance tonight. She’s crazy to talk with her dead husband, and there’s a medium taking advantage of her. He wants her money, and more.”

“A fake medium?”

“Is there any other kind?”

I smiled, liking her. “Give me the whole story, same as you’d have told to Mr. Escott.”

“You’ll help me?”

“I need to know more first.” I said it in a tone to indicate I was interested.

She plunged in, talking fast, but I had good shorthand and scribbled notes.

Miss Saeger and her older sister, Flora, were alone; their parents long dead. But Flora had money in trust and married into more money by getting hitched to James Weisinger Jr., who inherited a tidy fortune some years ago. The Depression had little effect on them. Flora became a widow last August when her still-young husband died in a sailing accident on Lake Michigan.

I’d been killed on that lake. “Sure it was an accident?”

“A wind shift caused the boom to swing around. It caught him on the side of the head and over he went. I still have nightmares about the awful thud when it hit him and the splash, but it’s worse for Flora—she was at the wheel at the time. She blames herself. No one else does. There were half a dozen people aboard who knew sailing. That kind of thing can happen out of the blue.”

I vaguely remembered reading about it in the paper. Nothing like some rich guy getting killed while doing rich-guy stuff to generate copy.

“Poor James never knew what hit him; it was just that fast. Flora was in hysterics and had to be drugged for a week. Then she kept to her bed nearly a month, then she read some stupid article in a magazine about using a Ouija board to talk to spirits and got it into her head that she had to contact James, to apologize to him.”

“That opened the door?”

“James is dead, and if he did things right, he’s in heaven and should stay there—in peace.” Miss Saeger growled in disgust. “I’ve gotten Flora’s pastor to talk to her, but she won’t listen to him. I’ve talked to her until we both end up screaming and crying, and she won’t see sense. I’m just her little sister and don’t know anything, you see.”

“What’s so objectionable?”

“Her obsession. It’s not healthy. I thought after all this time she’d lose interest, but she’s gotten worse. Every week she has a gaggle of those creeps from the Society over, they set up the board, light candles, and ask questions while looking at James’s picture. It’s pointless and sad and unnatural and—and…just plain disrespectful.”

I was really liking her now. “Society?”

“The Psychical Society of Chicago.”

Though briefly tempted to ask her to say it three times fast, I kept my yap shut. The group investigated haunted houses and held sittings—their word for séances—writing their experiences up for their archives. Escott was a member. For a buck a year to cover mailing costs, he’d get a pamphlet every month and read the more oddball pieces out to me.

“The odious thing is,” said Miss Saeger, “they’re absolutely sincere. When one has that kind of belief going, then of course it’s going to produce results.”

“What kind of results?”

“They’ve spelled out the names of all the people who ever died in the house, which is stupid because the house isn’t that old. The man who supervises these sittings says that’s because the house was built over the site of another, so the dead people are connected to it, you see. There’s no way to prove or disprove any of it. He’s got an answer for everything and always sounds perfectly reasonable.”

“Is he the medium?”

“No, but he brought him in. Alistair Bradford.” She put plenty of venom in that name. “He looks like something out of a movie.”

“What? Wears a turban like Chandu the Magician?”

Her big dark eyes flashed, then she choked, stifling a sudden laugh. She got things under control after a moment. “Thank you. It’s so good to talk with someone who sees things the way I do.”

“Tell me about him.”

“No turban, but he has piercing eyes, and when he walks into a room, everyone turns around. He’s handsome…for an old guy.”

“How old?”

“At least forty.”

“That’s ancient.”

“Please don’t make fun of me. I get that all the time from him, from all of them.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Saeger. Are you the only one left in the house with any common sense?”

“Yes.” She breathed that out, and it almost turned into a sob, but she headed it off. The poor kid looked to be only barely keeping control of a truckload of high emotion. I heard her heart pound fast, then gradually slow. “Even the servants are under his spell. I have friends, but I can’t talk to them about this. It’s just too embarrassing.”

“You’ve been by yourself on this since August?”

She nodded. “Except for our pastor, but he can’t be there every day. He tells me to keep praying for Flora, and I do, and still this goes on and just gets worse. I miss James, too. He was a nice man. He deserves better than this—this—”

“What broke the camel’s back to bring you here?”

“Before Alistair Bradford came, all they did was play with that stupid Ouija board. I’d burn it but they’d just buy another from the five and dime. After he was introduced, they began holding real séances. I don’t like any of that stuff and don’t believe in it, but he made it scary. It’s as though he gets taller and broader and his voice changes. With the room almost totally dark it’s easy to believe him.”

“They let you sit in?”

“Just the once—on sufferance so long as I kept quiet. When I turned the lights on in the middle of things, Flora banished me. She said my negative thoughts were preventing the spirits from coming through and that I was endangering Bradford’s life. You’re not supposed to startle a medium out of a trance or it could kill him. I wouldn’t mind seeing that, but he was faking. While they were all yelling I had my eye on him, and the look he gave me was pure hate…and he was smiling. He wanted to scare me and it worked. I’ve kept my door locked and haven’t slept much.”

“I don’t blame you. No one believes you?”

“Of course not. I’m not in their little club and to them I’m just a kid. What do I know?”

“Kids have instinct, a good thing to follow. Is he living in the house?”

“He mentioned it, but Flora—for once—didn’t think that was proper.”

“Is he romancing her?”

Miss Saeger’s eyes went hard. “Slowly. He’s too smart to rush things, but I see the way he struts around, looking at everything. If he lays a finger on Flora I’ll—”

I raised one hand. “I get it. You want Flora protected and him discredited.”

“Or his legs broken and his big smirking face smashed in.”

That was something I could have arranged. I know those kind of people. “It’s better if Flora gets rid of him by her own choice, though.”

“I don’t see how; I may have left it too late. I called here on Saturday to make the appointment, but—” She went red in the face. “I could just kill him.”

“What’d he do?”

“The last séance—they have one every Sunday and that’s just wrong having it on a Sunday—something horrible happened. They all gathered in the larger parlor at the table as usual, lighted candles, and put out the lights. Soon as it went dark, I slipped in while they were getting settled. There’s an old Chinese screen in one corner, and I hide behind it during their séances. Negative feelings, my foot; no one’s noticed me yet, not even Bradford, so I saw the whole thing.”

“Which was?”

“He put himself in a trance right on time. It usually takes five minutes, and by then everyone’s expecting something to happen; you can feel it. He starts out with a low groan and breathing loudly, and in the dark it’s spooky, and that’s when his spirit guide takes over. His voice gets deeper and he puts on a French accent. Calls himself Frère Lèon. He’s supposed to have been a monk who traveled with Joan of Arc.”

“Who speaks perfect English?”

“Of course. No one’s ever thought of talking to him in French. I doubt Bradford knows much more than mon Dieu and sang sacré.”

She’d attended a good finishing school, speaking with the right kind of pronunciation. I’d heard it when I’d been a doughboy in France during the last year of the war, and had picked up enough to get by. Much of that was too rough for Miss Saeger’s tender ears, though.

“And the horrible thing that happened?”

“It was at the end. He pretends to have Frère Lèon pass on messages from James. He can’t have James talk directly to Flora or he’d trip himself up. He doesn’t pass too many messages, either, just general stuff about how beautiful it is on the other side. She tries to talk to him and ask him things and she’s so desperate and afterwards she always cries and then she goes back for more. It’s cruel. But this time he said he was giving her a sign of what she should do.”

“Do?”

“I didn’t know what that meant, until…well, Bradford finished just then and pretended to be waking from his trance. That’s when they found what he’d snuck on the table. It was James’s wedding ring, the one he was buried with.”

I gave that the pause it deserved. “Not a duplicate?”

She shook her head, a fast, jerky movement. Her voice was thick. “Inside it’s engraved with To J. from F.—Forever Love. He never took it off and it had some hard wear: two distinct parallel scratches, and it wasn’t a perfect circle. Flora showed it to me as proof that Alistair Bradford was genuine. She didn’t want to hear my idea that…that he’d dug up and robbed James’s grave. I thought she’d slap me. She’s gone crazy, Mr.—”

“Fleming. Call me Jack.”

“Jack. Flora’s never raised a hand to me, even when we were kids and I was being bratty, but this has her all turned around. I thought Mr. Escott could find something out about Bradford that would prove him a fake or come to a séance and do something to break it up, but I don’t think she’d listen now. The last thing Bradford said before his trance ended was ‘You have his blessing.’ Put that with the ring and I know it means if he asks Flora to marry him, she’ll say yes because she’ll think that’s what James would want.”

“Come on, she can’t be that—”

“Stupid? Foolish? Under a spell? She is! That’s what’s driving me crazy. She should be smarter than this.”

“Grief can make you go right over the edge. Guilt can make it worse, and I bet she’s lonely, too. She should have gone to a head doctor but picked up a Ouija board instead. Does this Bradford ask for money?”

“He calls it a donation. She’s given him fifty dollars every time. He gets that much for all his sittings—and he does thirty to forty a month. My sister’s not the only dope in town.”

My mouth went dry. Fifty a week was a princely income, but that much times forty? I was in the wrong business. I’d gotten twenty-five a week back in New York as a reporter and counted myself lucky. “Well. It’s safer than robbing banks. Your sister can give him more by marriage?”

“Yes, her trust money and the estate from James. Bradford would have it, the house, never have to work again. Please, can you help me stop him?”

I thought of the people I knew who broke bones for a sawbuck and could make a man disappear for twice that. “I need to check this, you know. I only have your side of things.”

“And I’m just a kid.”

“Miss Saeger, I’d say the same thing to Eleanor Roosevelt if she was in that chair. Lemme make a phone call. Anyone going to be worried you’re gone?”

“I snuck out and got a taxi. Flora and I had a fight tonight and she thinks I’m sulking in my room. She’s busy, anyway—the new séance.”

“Uh-huh.” I dialed Gordy at the Nightcrawler Club and asked if he had any dirt on an Alistair Bradford, professional medium.

“Medium what?” asked Gordy in his sleepy-sounding voice.

“A swami; you know, séances, fortune-telling. It’s for a case. I’m filling in for Charles.”

He grunted, and he sounded amused. “You at his office? Ten minutes.” He hung up. As the Nightcrawler was a longer than ten-minute drive away I took him to mean he’d phone back, not drop by.

“Ten minutes,” I repeated to Miss Saeger. “What’s with the black getup? You still in mourning for your brother-in-law?”

“It was the only way I could think of to cover my face. I’m full grown, but soon as anyone looks at me, they think I’m fifteen or something.”

“And you’re really…?”

“Sixteen.”

“Miss Saeger, you are one brave and brainy sixteen-year-old, so I’m sure you’re aware that this is a school night.”

“My sister is more important than that, but thank you for the reminder.” There was a dryness in her tone that would have done credit to Escott. A couple years from now and she’d be one formidable young woman.

“What time is this séance?”

“Nine o’clock. Always.”

“Not at midnight?”

“Some of the older Society members get too sleepy if things go much past ten.”

“Why tonight instead of next Sunday?”

“James’s birthday. Bradford said that holding a sitting on the loved one’s birthday always means something special.”

“Like what?”

“He won’t say; he just smiles. It makes my skin crawl. I swear, if he’s not stopped, I’ll get one of James’s golf clubs and—” She went red in the face again, stood up, and paced. I did that when the pent-up energy got to be too much.

I tried to get more from her on tonight’s event, but she didn’t have anything else to add, though she had plenty of comments about Bradford’s antics. Guys like him I’d met before: they’re always the first to look you square in the eye and assure you they’re honest long before you begin to wonder.

The phone rang in seven minutes. Abigail Saeger halted midword and midstride and sat, leaning forward as I put the receiver to my ear. Gordy was like a library for all that was crooked in the great city of Chicago, with good reason: if he wasn’t behind it himself, he knew who was and where to find them. He gave me slim pickings about Bradford, but it was enough to confirm that the guy was trouble. He’d done some stage work as a magician, Alistair the Great, until discovering there was more cash to be had conjuring dead relatives from thin air instead of live rabbits. He preferred to collect as much money as possible in the shortest time, then make an exit. The wealthy widow Weisinger was too good a temptation to a man looking for an easy way to retire.

“You need help with this bo’?” Gordy asked.

“I’ll let you know. Thanks.”

“No problem.”

“Well?” asked Miss Saeger.

I hung up. “Count me in, ma’am.”

“That sounds so old. My name’s Abby.”

“Fine, you can sign it here.” I pulled out one of Escott’s standard contracts. It was short and vague, mostly a statement that the Escott Agency was retained for services by, with a blank after that and room for the date.

“How much will this be?”

“Five bucks should do it.”

“It has to be more than that. I read detective stories.”

“Special sale, tonight only. Anyone walking in here named Abby pays five bucks, no more, no less.”

For a second I thought she’d kiss me, and I was prepared to duck out of range. If my girlfriend found out I’d canoodled, however innocently or briefly, with a mere pippin of sixteen, I would find myself dead for real and for ever after.

Abby signed, fished a five-dollar bill from her pocketbook, and took my receipt in exchange. I put the money and the contract in Escott’s top desk drawer along with my shorthand notes. He’d have a fine time trying to figure things out when he came in tomorrow morning. I harvested my overcoat and fedora from the coat tree in the corner, and ushered my newest client out, locking up. She made it to the bottom of the stairs, then pulled the veil back over her face.

“Afraid someone will recognize you?” I asked. The street was empty.

“No sense in taking chances.”

Now I really liked her. I opened my new Studebaker up and handed her in, checking the sky. It had been threatening to sleet since before I got up tonight; I hoped it would hold off.

“Nice car,” she said.

The nicest I’d ever owned. My faithful ’34 Buick had come to a bad end, but this sporty replacement helped ease the loss. I got the motor purring, remembered to turn the headlights on, and put it in gear, pulling slowly from the curb. “Where’s your brother-in-law buried?” As Abby’s chin was just visible, I could see her jaw drop.

“Why do you need to know that?”

“I want to pay my respects.”

“The cemetery will be closed.”

“Which one? And where?”

She told me, finally, and I made a U-turn and got us on our way. Chicago traffic was no worse than usual as we headed toward Lincolnwood. Following Abby’s directions we ended up driving slowly along North Ravenswood Avenue. A railroad track on our left obscured the view of the cemetery grounds. When a cross street opened, I took the turn under the tracks. A pale stone building with crenellations, Gothic windows, and a square, two-storied tower with a number of slender, round towers at the corners and along the front wall looked back at us. It had too much dignity to be embarrassed. The gates that blocked its arched central opening were, indeed, closed.

“Told you,” said Abby.

“Is Mr. Weisinger anywhere near the front?” This place looked huge. They only put fancy stone buildings like that in front of the really large cemeteries.

“Go back south and turn on Bryn Mawr. I’ll tell you when to stop.”

What the lady said. It took awhile to find a sufficiently secluded place to park, then Abby provided very specific directions to the grave, which was not too far from the boundary wall.

“What are you going to do?” she asked.

I was about to say she didn’t want to know, but decided that would get me an observation about not treating her like an adult. “I’m going to check to see if the grave has been disturbed enough to bring in the law.”

“But the police, the papers—”

“A necessary evil. If they show up asking Bradford how he got that wedding ring, how long do you think he’ll stick around?”

“Would they put him in jail?” She looked hopeful.

“We’ll see. You gonna be warm enough? Good. I’ll be quick.”

“Don’t you want me along?”

“I’ll bet you’re good at it, but you’re not exactly dressed for getting around fences.”

She looked relieved.

I slammed the door, opened the trunk, and drew out a crowbar from the toolbox I kept there. Since Abby didn’t need to see it and try to guess why I’d want one, I held it out of sight while approaching the cemetery’s boundary. It was made of iron bars with points on top, an easy climb if you were nimble.

I had the agility, but slipped between the bars instead. Literally. One of my happier talents acquired after my death was being able to vanish and float just about anywhere I liked, invisible as air. Since it was dark and there was some distance between me and the car, I figured Abby wouldn’t see much if I partially vanished, eased through, and went solid again. Blink of an eye and it was done.

The cemetery grounds were covered with a thick layer of mostly undisturbed snow. Trees, bushes, and monuments of all shapes showed black against it. I made my way to one of the wide paths that had been shoveled clear, looking out for the landmark of an especially ornate mausoleum with marble columns in front. Weisinger’s grave marker was just behind it. The dates on the substantial granite block told me he’d been born this day and was only a few years younger than I, the poor bastard. Another, identical block sprouted right next to it with his widow’s name and date of birth already in place.

The snow lay differently over his plot, clumped and broken, dirtier than the stuff in the surrounding area. Footprints were all over, but not being an Indian tracker I couldn’t make much from them, only that someone had recently been busy here and worn galoshes.

I poked the long end of the crowbar into the soil, and it went in far too easily. Ground that had had seven months to settle and freeze in the winter weather would have put up more resistance. Bradford or someone working for him had dug down, opened the coffin, grabbed the wedding ring, and put the earth back. Then he’d taken the trouble to dump shovelfuls of snow on top so a casual eye wouldn’t notice. He was probably hoping there’d be another fall soon to cover the rest of the evidence.

The ghoulishness of the robbery appalled me; the level of greed behind it disgusted me. I knew some tough customers who worked for Gordy, and even they would have balked at this level of low.

The moment Abigail Saeger told me about Weisinger’s death on the lake, I’d signed myself onto the job. Something twinged inside me then, connecting that death to my own and to that damned “Gloomy Sunday” song playing on the radio. I didn’t want to believe in coincidences of the weird kind; signs and portents were strictly for the fortune-teller’s booth at the midway.

But still…I got a twinge.

It was different from the gooseflesh creep that means someone’s walking over your grave. When it came down to it, I didn’t have a grave, just that lake. The people who’d murdered me had also robbed me of a proper burial. Weisinger had gotten one but Bradford had violated it.

That was just wrong.

And just as that thought crossed my mind the wind abruptly kicked up, rattling the bare branches as though the trees were waking up around me. They scratched and clacked and I tried to not imagine bones making a similar noise, but it was too late.

“All right, keep your shirt on,” I said to no one in particular, stepping away from the grave. It sure as hell felt like someone was listening.

I was dead (or undead), surrounded by acres of the truly dead. The wind sent snow dust skittering along the black path. My imagination gave it form and purpose as it swept by. A sizable icicle from high up broke away and dropped like a spear, making a pop as loud as a gunshot when it hit a stone marker and shattered not two yards away. If my heart had been beating, it would have stopped then and there.

It’s easy to be calm about weird coincidence when one is not in a cemetery at night. I decided it was time to leave. That I winked out quick and sped invisibly over the ground toward the fence faster than a scalded cat was my own business. Anyway, I went solid again as soon as I was on the other side.

Abby and I needed to get to her house before nine.

That’s what I told myself while quick-marching to the car, consciously not looking over my shoulder.

Rachel Caine is known for the bestselling Weather Warden series, as well as her hot new young adult series, The Morganville Vampires. She’s also written novels for the Silhouette Bombshell line, and has numerous other books and short stories to her credit. Visit her website at www.rachelcaine.com for news and updates.

Eighteenth birthdays in Morganville are usually celebrated one of two ways: getting totally wasted with your friends or making a terrifying life-or-death decision about your continued survival.

Not that there can’t be some combination of the two.

My eighteenth birthday party was held in the back of a rust-colored ’70s-era Good Times van, and the select guest list included some of Morganville’s Least Wanted. Me, for instance—Eve Rosser. Number of people who’d signed my yearbook: five. Two of them had scrawled C YA LOSER. (Number of people I’d wanted to sign my yearbook? Zero. But that was just me.)

And then there was my best friend, Jane, and her sister, Miranda. I’d invited Jane, not Miranda. Jane was okay—kind of dull, but seriously, with a name like Jane? Cursed from birth. She did like some cool things, other than me of course. Wicked ’80s make-out music, for instance. BPAL—Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab—perfume, particularly from the Dark Elements line, although I personally preferred the Funereal Oils. Jane wasn’t Goth—more Preppy Nerd Girl than anything else—but she had some style.

Miranda, the uninvited one, was a kid. Well, Miranda was a weird kid who’d convinced a lot of people she was some kind of psychic. I didn’t invite her to the party, because I didn’t think she’d be loads of fun, and also she wasn’t likely to bring beer. Her BPAL preferences were unknown, mainly because she didn’t live on Planet Earth.

Which left Guy and Trent, my two excellent beer-buying buddies. They were my buddies mostly because Guy had a fake ID that he’d made in art class, and Trent owned the party bus in which we were ensconced. Other than that, I didn’t know either one of them that well, but they were smart-ass, funny, and safe to get drunk with. Guy and Trent were the only gay couple I actually knew, gaydom being sort of frowned upon in the Heartland of Texas that was Morganville.

We were all about the ironic family values.

The evening went pretty much the way such things are supposed to go: guys buy cheap-ass beer, distribute to underage females, drive to a deserted location (in this case, the creepy-cool high school parking lot) to play loud headbanger music and generally act like idiots. The only thing missing was the make-out sessions, which was okay by me; most of the guys of Morganville were gag worthy, anyway. There were one or two I would have gladly crawled over barbwire to date, but Shane Collins had left town, and Michael Glass…well, I hadn’t seen Michael in a while. Nobody had.

Jane brought me a birthday present, which was kind of sweet, especially since it was a brand-new mix CD of songs about dead people. Jane knows what I like.

I was still a mystery to Guy and Trent, though. Granted, Morganville’s a small town, and all us loser outcast freaks had a nodding acquaintance. The pecking order goes something like this: geeks, freaks, nerds, druggies, gays, and Goths. Goths were on the bottom because the undead think wannabes are disgusting if they’re serious about it, or dangerously smart-assed if they aren’t. Which I wasn’t. Mostly.

Oh, I forgot to mention: vampires. Town’s run by them. Full of them. Humans live here on sufferance, heavy on the “suffer.”

See what I mean about the ironic family values?

I could tell that Guy had been trying to think of a way to ask me all night, but thanks to consuming over half a case of beer with his Significantly Wasted Other, he finally just blurted out the question of the day. “So, are you signing or what?” he asked. Yelled, actually, over whatever song was currently making my head hurt. “I mean, tomorrow?”

Was I signing? That was the Big Question, the one all of us faced at eighteen. I looked down at my wrist, because I was still wearing my leather bracelet. The symbol on it wasn’t anything people outside of Morganville would recognize, but it identified the vampire who was the official Protector for my family. However, as of that morning, I was no longer in that select little club of people who had to kiss Brandon’s ass to continue to draw breath.

I also would no longer have any kind of deal or Protection from any vampire in Morganville.

What Guy was asking was whether or not I intended to pick myself a Protector of my very own. It was traditional to sign with your family’s hereditary patron, but no way in hell was I letting Brandon have power over me. So I could either shop around to see if any other vampire could—or would—take me, or go bare…live without a contract.

Which was attractive but seriously risky. See, Morganville vampires don’t generally kill off their own humans, because that would make life difficult for everybody, but free-range, unProtected humans? Nobody worries much what happens to them, because usually they’re alone, and they’re poor, and they disappear without a trace.

Just another job opening at the Chicken Shack fry machine.

They were all looking at me now. Jane, Miranda, Guy, and Trent, all waiting to hear what Eve Rosser, Professional Rebel, was going to do.

I didn’t disappoint them. I tipped back the beer, belched, and said, “Hell, no, I’m not signing. Bareback all the way, baby! Let’s live fast and die young!”

Guy and I did drunken high fives. Trent rolled his eyes and clicked beer bottles with Jane. “They all say that,” he said. “Right up until the AIDS test comes back. Then there’s the wailing and the weeping….”

“Jesus, Trent, you’re the laugh of the party.”

“That’s life of the party, honey bunches. Oh, wait, you’re right. Not in Morganville, it isn’t.” God, Trent was hyper, which was weird for a guy consuming as many brews as he had. Maybe he was just naturally that way. Maybe his Ritalin had worn off. Anyway, it was bugging me.

“Boo-ha-ha. Is that funny at all in other vans in town?” Jane asked. “Because it’s not so funny in here, ass pirate.”

“You should know, princess; you’ve been on your back in every van in town,” Trent shot back.

“Hey, bitch!” Jane tossed an empty bottle at him; Trent caught it and threw it in the plastic bin in the corner. Which, I had to admit, meant that despite the jittering, Trent could hold his liquor, because he led the field in ounces consumed by a wide margin. “Seriously, Eve—what are you going to do?”

I hadn’t thought about it. Or, actually, I had, but in that what if kind of way that was really just bullshit bravado…but now it was down to do-or-don’t, or it would be when the sun came up in the morning. I was going to have to choose, and that choice would rule the rest of my life.

Maybe I shouldn’t have gotten quite so trashed, given the circumstances.

“Well, I’m not signing with Brandon,” I said slowly. “Maybe I’ll shop around for another patron.”

“You really think anybody else is going to stand up and volunteer if Brandon’s got you marked?” Guy asked. “Girl, you got yourself a death wish.”

“Yeah, like that’s news,” Jane said. “Look how she dresses!”

Nothing wrong with how I was dressed. A skull T-shirt, a spiked belt low on my hips, bike shorts, fishnets, black and red Mary Janes. Oh, maybe she was talking about my makeup. I’d done the Full-On Goth today—white face powder, big black rings around my eyes, blue lips. It was sort of a joke.

And also, sort of not.

“It doesn’t matter,” said a small, quiet voice that somehow cut right through the music.

I’d almost forgotten about Miranda—the kid was sitting in the corner of the van, her knees drawn up, staring off into the distance.

“It speaks,” Trent said, and laughed maniacally. “I was starting to think you’d just brought the kid along to protect your virtue, Jane.” He gave her a comical flutter of his long, lush eyelashes.

Miranda was still talking, or at least her lips were moving, but her words were lost in a particularly loud guitar crunch. “What?” I yelled, and leaned closer. “What do you mean?”

Miranda’s pale blue gaze moved and fixed on me, and I wished it hadn’t. There was something really strange about the girl, all right, even if her rep as the town Cassandra was exaggerated. She’d supposedly known about the fire last year that burned the Collins family out; people even said she predicted that Alyssa Collins would die in the fire. Jane said Miranda made it all up after the fact, but who knew? The girl had a double helping of weird, with creepy little sprinkles on top.

“It doesn’t matter what you decide to do,” she said louder. “Really. It doesn’t.”

“Yeah?” Trent asked, and leaned over to snag another beer from the Coleman cooler in the center of the van floor. He twisted off the cap and turned it over in his black-polished fingers. “Why’s that, o Madame Doom? Is one of us going to die tonight?” They all made hilariously drunken ooooooooo sounds, and Trent upended the bottle and chugged.

“Yes,” Miranda whispered. Nobody else heard her but me.

And then her eyes rolled up in her skull, and she collapsed flat out on the filthy shag carpet on the floor of the van.

“Jesus,” Guy blurted, and crawled over to her. He checked her pulse and breathed a sigh of relief. “I think she’s alive.”

Jane hadn’t moved at all. She looked more annoyed than concerned. “It’s okay,” she said. “She had some kind of vision. It happens. She’ll come out of it.”

Trent said, “Damn, I was starting to get worried it was the beer.”

“She didn’t have any, moron.”

“See? Serious beer deficiency. No wonder she’s out.”

“Shouldn’t we do something?” Guy asked anxiously. He was cradling Miranda in his arms, and she was as limp as a rag doll, her head lolling against his head. Her eyes were closed now, moving frantically behind the lids like she was trying to look all directions at once, in the dark. “Like, take her to the hospital?”

The Morganville hospital was neutral ground—no vampires could hunt there. So it was the safest place for anybody who was, well, not working at full power. But Jane just shook her head.

“I told you, this happens all the time. She’ll be okay in a couple of minutes. It’s like an epileptic seizure or something.” Jane looked at me curiously. “What did she say to you?”

I couldn’t figure out how to tell her, so I just drank my beer and said nothing.

Probably a mistake.

Jane was right, it took a couple of minutes, but Miranda’s eyes fluttered open, blank and unfocused, and she struggled to sit up in Guy’s arms. He held on for a second, then let go. She scrambled away and sat in the far corner of the van, next to the empty bottles, with her hands over her head. Jane sighed, handed me her beer, and crawled over to whisper with her sister and stroke her hair.

“Well,” Trent said. “Guess the emergency’s over. Beer?”

“No,” I said, and drained my last bottle. I was feeling loose and sparkly, and I was going to be seriously sorry in the morning—oh, it was morning. Like, nearly 2 a.m. Great. “I need to get home, Trent.”

“But the night’s barely late–middle age!”

“Trent. Man, I have to go.”

“Party pooper. Okay, fine.” Trent shot me a resentful look and jerked his head to Guy. “Help me drive, okay?”

“You’re driving?” Guy looked alarmed. Trent had downed lots of beer. Lots. He didn’t seem to be feeling it, and it wasn’t like we had far to go, but…yeah. Still, I didn’t feel capable, and Guy looked even more bleary. Jane…well, she hadn’t been far behind Trent in the Drunk-Ass Sweepstakes either. And letting a fourteen-year-old epileptic have the wheel wasn’t a better solution.

“Not like we can walk,” I said reluctantly. “Look, drive slow, okay? Slow and careful.”

Trent shot me a crisp OK sign and saluted. He didn’t look drunk. I swallowed hard and crawled back to sit with Jane and Miranda. “We’re going home,” I said. “Guess you guys get dropped off first, right? Then me?”

Miranda nodded. “Sit here,” she said. “Right here.” She patted the carpet next to her.

I rolled my eyes. “Comfy here, thanks.”

“No! Sit here!”

I looked at Jane and frowned. “Are you sure she’s okay?” And made a little not-so-subtle loopy-loop at my temple.

“Yeah, she’s fine,” Jane sighed. “She’s been getting these visions again. Most of the time they’re bullshit, though. I think she just does it for the attention.”

Jane was looking put out, and I guess she had reason. If Miranda was this much fun at parties, I could only imagine what a barrel of laughs she was at home.

Miranda was getting more and more upset. Jane gave her a ferocious frown and said, “Oh, God. Just do it, Eve. I don’t want her having another fit or something.”

I crawled across Miranda and wedged myself uncomfortably into the corner where she indicated. Yeah, this was great. At least it was going to be a short drive.

It was what was waiting at the end of it that I was afraid of. Brandon. Decisions. The beginning of my adult life.

Trent started the van and pulled a tight U-turn out of the high school parking lot. There were no side windows, but out of the back windows I saw the big, hulking ’30s-era building with its Greek columns fading away like a ghost into the night. Morganville wasn’t big on streetlights, although there were a crapload of surveillance cameras. The cops knew where we’d been. They knew everything in Morganville, and half of them were vampires.

God, I wanted to apply for the paperwork to get the hell out, but it was a waste of time. I needed an acceptance letter to an out-of-state university or waivers from the mayor’s office. I wasn’t likely to get either one with my grades and ’tude. No, I had to face facts: I was a lifer, stuck in Morganville, watching the world go by.

At least, until somebody cut me out of the herd and I became a snack pack.

Trent was driving faster than we’d agreed. Not only that, the van was veering a little to the side of the road. “Yo, T!” I yelled. “Eyes front, man!”

He turned to look back at me, and his pupils were huge and dark, and he giggled, and I had time to think, Oh shit, he’s not drunk; he’s high, and then he hit the gas.

Miranda’s hand closed over my arm. I looked at her, and she was crying. “I don’t want them to die,” she said. “I don’t.”

“Oh, Jesus, Mir, would you stop?” Jane said, and smacked her hand away. “Drama princess.”

But I was looking at Miranda, and she was staring at me, and she slowly nodded her head.

“Here it comes,” she said, and transferred the stare to her sister. “I’m sorry. I love you.”

And then something bad happened, and the world ended.

Jeanne C. Stein is the author of the Anna Strong series, the first of which, The Becoming, was released in December 2006. The second book, Blood Drive, was published in July. She lives in Colorado, where, when not working on her novels, she edits a newsletter for a beer importer and takes kickboxing classes to stay in shape. She can be reached through her website, www.jeannestein.com.

The idea came to Sophie during Jonathon Deveraux’s one hundred fiftieth birthday party.

She was not there as a guest, of course. Witches are seldom invited to vampire functions, their magics dismissed as parlor tricks to amuse the masses. No, she was catering the event. Her business, Weird and Wonderful Catering (voted number one in the latest Supernatural Hot Ticket poll as the caterer for that special event), made her the only choice for a party of this scope and magnitude. For the moment, at least, her questionable heritage as a witch was forgotten.

Sophie blew on the tip of her finger and muttered, “Extinguishé.”

The small lick of flame sputtered and died. She waved her hand in the air in a vaguely distracted way, looking down at the cake and its many candles.

“Damn vamps,” she said to no one in particular. Well, to no one at all, really, since she was alone in the room. Still, that didn’t stop her from rambling on. “Why did I agree to this? I almost burned my finger off lighting all those damned candles.”

She turned from the table with a rustle of silk, her long burgundy skirt swirling around her legs. She wasn’t an old witch, as witches go. Only eighty years. Her back was still straight, her dark hair barely touched with gray. She didn’t look a day over forty, really. Good genes. And even better cosmetics, most of her own making.

She blew again on her smarting fingertip. She ought to pursue that—marketing her own line of fine cosmetics—instead of this thankless occupation. Caterers were underpaid, overworked, and generally ignored. Unless something went wrong. Then they became the center of unwanted and often perilous attention.

Especially with her unique clientele.

The door to the kitchen swung open. “Are you ready with the cake, Sophie?”

The question was asked in an eager, breathless way by a woman who looked twenty but whom Sophie suspected might be a little older, though certainly not by much. With vampires it was hard to tell. The woman standing in front of Sophie was confident, beautiful, and wife to a distinguished vampire. She was dressed to the nines in a designer gown with jewels that flashed at her neck and ears. Rumor had it that Mr. Deveraux turned her on their wedding night, and that was only six months ago. Now here she was, acting every bit the mistress of the manor.

Sophie swallowed a wave of envy and said, “Yes, ma’am. Would you like me to bring it in?”

“Oh, I want to do it.” The woman’s face glowed with anticipation. “Jonathon will be so surprised.”

Sophie frowned. “You must be careful, Mrs. Deveraux,” she said. “There are one hundred fifty burning candles on this cake. If your dress brushes against even one of them—”

Her concern was flicked away with the back of a bejeweled hand. “Don’t worry. I know how to be careful around fire. This is my surprise and I want to deliver it.”

Sophie stepped back from the table. “As you wish.”

The woman took her place behind a tea cart bearing the huge tower of a cake. Sophie held open the door, careful to keep her own dress and hair out of the path of the blazing birthday tribute. The air fairly shimmered from the heat and glare of the candles. Why a vampire, especially such an old one, wanted candles on his cake was a mystery to her. One spark and he would burst into flame like an old Christmas tree.

Sophie hadn’t met Jonathon Deveraux, tonight’s guest of honor, but she had seen a picture of him, a portrait hanging over the fireplace, when she came to finalize the party arrangements. He was a tall, good-looking man who must have been turned in his thirties because his face was unlined, his hair dark and thick. That it was a contemporary portrait was borne out by his clothing, a casual shirt and linen slacks, and a backdrop of the stables here on the property. It was just an impression, the feeling that this was not a man who would have indulged in such a pretentious birthday display as one hundred fifty burning candles. No, Sophie thought, this must have been the idea of his vacuous new wife, too recently turned to know the danger.

Oh, well. Sophie looked at the mountain of cake pans and utensils stacked in the sink. Not her problem. Time to clean up.

She waved a hand. “Lavàto.”

The dishes arranged and rearranged themselves, moving from a sink of soapy water to another of clear running water and then onto a rack to be dried by a gentle stream of warm air. From the rack, they floated to the proper shelves in the cupboard or into silverware drawers. All done in the whisk of a cat’s tail.

For the first time this evening, Sophie could relax. The cake was done, the kitchen in order. She had nothing to do now but wait for the festivities to be over. In reality, a vampire party was the easiest of all supernatural functions to cater. Vampires didn’t require food. But they did like to impress each other with flashy displays, like the birthday cake. She found her biggest challenge for a vampire party was coming up with novel ways to serve blood. Like real Bloody Marys (finding thirty women named Mary to donate blood was no easy feat!). Tonight she had gone to great lengths to find something really special—a case of vintage Rothschild taken from actual Rothschilds. She hoped the guest of honor appreciated the effort, since he was paying for it. But like most rich vampires, and their condescending wives, he would most likely take the gesture for granted along with the witch who provided it.

Thankless. This job was thankless.

Sophie took a seat on a stool and leaned her elbows on a granite countertop. She let her thoughts wander again to her favorite subject of late—starting her own cosmetics firm. She was facing the shiny surface of a chrome toaster and she scooted down to examine her reflection.

Clear skin. Tiny wrinkles touching the corners of wide blue eyes. Generous mouth with none of the telltale crinkles that caused lipstick to smear and marked the lips of the middle-aged woman. She truly did not look her age. Not in the way of vampires who not only physically stopped the aging process but reversed it. But nearly as good. Her creams slowed it to a crawl. And her cosmetics transformed the plain into…She examined her features. Her mascara made pale lashes long and dark, and her blush gave cheeks the definition that nature hadn’t.

She touched the tip of her nose. Nothing short of surgery would fix something like that, of course. But artfully applied foundation, dark at the sides of her nose and light at the tip, diminished the contour.

She wasn’t beautiful by any means. But she was good at this. She could show others how to be good at it, too.

She’d made a success of the catering business; why not try her hand at cosmetics?

The screech and howl came simultaneously and Sophie jumped off the stool.

Ye gods, she thought. The idiot has caught herself on fire.

This was exactly what she feared might happen. Sophie knew in spite of her warnings to Mrs. Deveraux, she would be blamed for the accident.

For a second, she considered fleeing. But that would be a waste of time. Mr. Deveraux knew his wife had hired Sophie to cater his party. Unless she planned to transport herself to an alternate universe, he would find her.

She might as well face the music now. Teleportation would be a last resort. She listened as the din of the crowd gradually faded from shock and horror to mumbled condolences to the new widower. Sophie waited for the kitchen door to open and for the bereaved to storm in to exact his revenge.

It took much longer than she anticipated. The crowd was slow to leave, evidently, and Mr. Deveraux in no hurry to show them out. This puzzled Sophie but again, the antics of vampires were a constant source of puzzlement to her. They never did what was expected or what decorum dictated. She guessed that’s what came from living hundreds of years and not being tied to the laws of god or man.

Sophie began to relax. Obviously, Mr. Deveraux was not devastated by the loss of his wife. Perhaps he had grown tired of her already. After all, what could he have had in common with such a young woman? In the manner of adolescents today (for to Sophie, anyone under the age of thirty was an adolescent), she would neither know nor care anything about recent history, let alone events from her husband’s distant past.

Sophie took the fact that Deveraux had not yet made an attempt on her life as a sign from the gods that it was indeed time to switch careers.

When it became obvious that the party was proceeding, Sophie took a seat again at the counter. She pulled a small notebook from the pocket of her tunic and opened it. On the inside cover was clipped a pen which she pulled free. With a careful, precise hand, she started making notations. She thought a night cream would be a good introductory product. When women saw the results, they would naturally want something for the daytime, too. Following that, she would launch cosmetics: foundation, blushers, mascaras. All with the same miraculous base guaranteed to slow the ravages of age.

Hmmmm. Ravishing. That might be an appropriate name for the line. A play on words. Ravaged to Ravishing. Voilà. A slogan.

Sophie felt the excitement build. She would do this. While the catering business was basically a one-woman show, this would be different. Her lotions were made the old-fashioned way, by hand. She would need to find a suitable place to make the cosmetics in batches large enough to accommodate what was sure to be a huge demand. And there was packaging and marketing to consider. She knew a warlock in advertising. He could help her find the right people to handle—

The kitchen door flew open. Sophie, caught unaware and deep in her own musings, nearly fell off the stool. She scrambled to regain her footing and steeled herself to meet Mr. Deveraux.

“I’m so sorry, sir,” she began, turning to face what would surely be her angry host.

The words died on her lips. Mrs. Deveraux stood smiling at her from the doorway. “Not to worry, Sophie,” she said. “Mr. Deveraux had a long, full life. He went out in a blaze of glory befitting a vampire of his age and stature.”

Sophie was too stunned to reply. How could a vampire as old as Mr. Deveraux let himself be caught on fire? Her candles were magic. One puff on one candle and the rest extinguished themselves. It was a safety feature of her own invention designed exclusively for vampires. The only danger would have come when the cake was presented.

She narrowed her eyes. “I don’t understand.”

Mrs. Deveraux waved a hand. “It’s nothing for you to worry about. I have no intention of seeking retribution.” She bent her head and examined her carefully manicured fingernails. “It was entirely my fault. I tripped on the rug and the cart bumped Mr. Deveraux. When he turned around, poof. His jacket caught. It was an unfortunate accident.”

She looked up at Sophie then, her own eyes tightening a little at the corners. “I’m sure you must be relieved to know I don’t hold you responsible in any way.”

Sophie was smart enough to recognize the threat. She shrugged. “I am relieved, yes.”

The bright smile returned. “Then please come and do a quick cleanup, will you? There is ash on the cake, but I think if you work your magic, you can re-frost it or something and we can enjoy it. After all, my guests and I have heard so much about your wonderful cakes. It would be a shame to throw this one away. Will you fix it? Please?”

Sophie waved a hand, and a spatula flew from a drawer and into her grasp. She followed Mrs. Deveraux into the living room, barely drawing so much as a glance from anyone at the party. In fact, everyone seemed to have recovered quite nicely from the recent tragedy, thank you. The laughter and chatter and clink of glassware went on as if Sophie were here to clean up a small culinary accident instead of disposing of the host’s mortal remains.

Sophie examined the cake. A dusting of ash did indeed cover one side, and a small mound of the stuff sparkled on the floor. Vampire dust was like diamond dust, hard and bright and the consistency of fine beach sand. Wouldn’t do to bite into it. She started to smooth dust and icing away from the base of the candles when Mrs. Deveraux stopped her with a butterfly touch to the arm.

“Get rid of those candles, too, won’t you? It’s a gruesome reminder of—well, you know.”

Sophie nodded. Yes, she did know. Mrs. Deveraux showed no more grief for her dearly departed than any of her guests. Maybe it was a good thing Sophie hadn’t met Mr. Deveraux. He must have been a thoroughly disagreeable individual to have his passing marked with such ambivalence.

Sophie invoked a spell and the candles disappeared. It made patching the icing much easier. When she was finished with the cake, she muttered another spell and a small dustpan and whisk broom materialized. She scooped up the ash from the floor and the small mound of dust-embedded icing and, with a nod to Mrs. Deveraux, retreated with relief back to the kitchen.

Sophie scraped the gritty icing into the garbage disposal. She stared at the sandy residue left sparkling in the dustpan. This was the first time anything like this had happened at one of her parties. She’d heard the stories of vampires accidentally immolating themselves through drunken or careless behavior. It happened more often than people realized, actually. Vampires took their immortality for granted and didn’t follow basic principles of common sense. Falling asleep with a lighted cigarette, for instance, was as fatal to vampires as humans.

Sophie shook the remains of the late Mr. Deveraux into the palm of her hand and let him—it—sift through her fingers. The ash felt surprisingly silky to the touch. She thought of the portrait hanging over the fireplace. Mr. Deveraux died the second death on his one hundred fiftieth birthday, and yet he passed among humans as a thirty-year-old. Now that was the ultimate age defyer.

She sat up straight. How did vampires do it? How did they remain physically ageless regardless of the passing of time?

They drank blood, for one.

Sophie’s brow wrinkled in concentration. She reviewed what she knew about vampire physiology. It wasn’t a lot. She did remember reading somewhere that the blood thing was to supply energy needed to replace what could no longer be derived from normal food sources. Vampires had all the internal organs of an ordinary human. They just no longer functioned, frozen in their bodies, Sophie guessed, to preserve the outward physical appearance of a normal human being.

So was that what made them immortal? Organs that did not atrophy with age or disease? Was that what stopped the aging process?

She had no idea. Nor did she have anyone she could ask. Witches and vampires avoided each other. She was an exception, as were other witches who supplied services that vampires were unable or unwilling to perform for themselves.

She looked again at the ash, winking like starlight in the glare of the kitchen’s bright incandescence. This was the essence of a vampire.

What would happen if she mixed some of the ash into her lotions?

She felt a thrill as the idea took shape. Why not try it? What if adding the ash to her moisturizer, instead of merely slowing or decreasing the signs of age was, in fact, able to reverse them? It would be a revolutionary breakthrough. And it would be hers.

Sophie carefully emptied the ash into a ziplock bag and tucked it into a pocket in her tunic. She grew restless, impatient to get out of here and eager to experiment with this new ingredient. Glancing at her watch, she saw that it was just a little before 1 a.m. Drat. Since vampires had adapted to sunlight, the constraint of getting home before dawn was no longer an issue. This party could drag on well into midday.

How to get around that?

What could she say to get Mrs. Deveraux to allow her leave early? The obvious answer would be that she was devastated by the accident. She could offer to come back tomorrow and clean up, maybe even throw in a free cocktail party to be given at Mrs. Deveraux’s time of choosing.

Vampires, for all their accumulated wealth, were notoriously tight-fisted. The free party might just do it.

Sophie closed her eyes and willed Mrs. Deveraux to come into the kitchen. She had only to wait a minute before the woman appeared at the door, looking slightly puzzled.

She frowned at Sophie. “Now this is strange. A second ago I had a reason to come into the kitchen but now I seem to have forgotten it completely.” She laughed a little self-consciously. “The events of this evening must have unnerved me more than I realized.”

Sophie assumed a properly downcast expression. She even began to clasp and unclasp her hands like an anxious schoolgirl facing a stern headmistress, making sure her distress transmitted itself through the air and into Mrs. Deveraux’s consciousness.

Mrs. Deveraux immediately picked up on Sophie’s angst. She reached out a hand but stopped just short of touching her. Sophie was, after all, the help and a witch to boot. “Please, Sophie,” she said. “I can see how upset you are. I assure you there will be no repercussions from tonight’s accident.”

Sophie let a single tear trail down her cheek. “I just feel so awful. The whole thing is making me physically ill.” For added emphasis, she brought a fist up and pressed it against her mouth.

Mrs. Deveraux backed away in alarm. “Perhaps you should go home,” she said quickly. “I didn’t consider how this might affect a woman of your age. I can have my own staff clean up tomorrow. There is no need for you to stay.” She caught herself then and gave Sophie a sideways glance. “Naturally, I would expect a credit on the bill….”

Vampires were so predictable. Sophie kept her face a mask of unhappiness. “Naturally.”

After that impudent crack about “a woman of her age” (for Mrs. Deveraux had no way of knowing how old Sophie was), Sophie was tempted to forget about the party offer. But she didn’t have that many vampire contacts and if the ash worked…She acknowledged Mrs. Deveraux’s permission to leave with a nod. “And for your consideration, I would be happy to cater a small cocktail party for you in the future. No charge.”

That clinched it. Mrs. Deveraux practically pushed Sophie out the door with admonitions to take care going home and to put the unfortunate event of the evening out of her mind.

Sophie waited until the door was firmly latched behind her to allow a smile. She summoned her transport telepathically. She didn’t drive. Often she teleported herself, a trick she learned from her big sister. Not many witches could do it. It took concentration, though, and she found when she was distracted or excited the results were sometimes spotty. She might end up in a different county or a different state. Tonight she was both distracted and excited. Better to be safe than sorry.

Besides, she liked to support local business. The company she used was owned by a warlock with a driving service that provided after-hours transportation for supernaturals at reduced rates. Sometimes that meant waiting awhile for a car to appear. But tonight Sophie was lucky.

In a matter of minutes, the cab materialized in the driveway. Sophie climbed in, greeted the driver, and gave her address. The cabbie neither acknowledged the greeting nor the address. In fact, he hardly waited for her to pull shut the door before the car lurched away. Sophie’s head banged against the headrest.

Had a bad day, have we?, she thought grumpily, wondering if she should make it worse by giving him warts.

But happier thoughts soon prevailed. She couldn’t wait to get home and mix up a batch of moisturizer, this time with a pinch of Mr. Deveraux. How much to use would be a serious consideration. She pulled the baggie out of her pocket. There wasn’t a lot of ash. Even considering what little she scraped off the cake, the amount left would maybe fill a half-cup measure. It must be terrifically concentrated.

The driver screeched to a stop in front of her house the same abrupt way he had pulled away from the Deveraux mansion. Again, Sophie’s head bounced. Her temper flared and she raised a hand to plant a great big hairy wart on the tip of his nose when he turned around for the first time.

She let her hand fall. Great. Of all the drivers in the city I get the troll, she thought. His hairy face was already covered with warts. And trolls were notoriously bad drivers.

His guttural voice barked at her. “Here you be, ma’am. That’ll be twenty bucks.”

She clicked her tongue and forked over the cash, adding a five-dollar tip even though she knew he didn’t deserve it. She had a soft spot for trolls. They couldn’t help how they looked or their thorny temperaments. It was genetic.

At least this time, he waited for her to get all the way out of the cab before gunning away from the curb.

Sophie started up the path to her house. She lived on the outskirts of the city, a place close enough to allow access to the museums and theaters she loved, but far enough removed to allow the kind of outdoor activity witches enjoyed without attracting the curiosity or attention of neighbors. Her cottage was small but comfortable and she filled it with beautiful earthly objects—rocks, seashells, flowers, and plants. It was a place of refuge and light.

And best of all, it was a place with a basement.

Which is where Sophie headed now, pausing only to switch on a light upstairs before heading down. Her workshop was here. Her tools, her cauldrons, her herbs. She’d had an industrial sink and stove installed and shelving to hold the basic ingredients of her cosmetic line. Everything was neat and orderly and stored in a way to make her work easy.

Sophie was nothing if not organized.

She tied her hair back and an apron around her slender frame and got right to work. In forty minutes, she had a batch of moisturizer brewing on the stove. It was time to add the new ingredient; time to add Mr. Deveraux and see what he brought to the mix. Her hand was shaking with excitement as she measured out a teaspoon, then reduced it by one half. After all, she had no idea what the effect of the ash would be. And since she was going to be the guinea pig in this experiment, she felt it prudent to proceed cautiously. She could always add more to a later batch if need be.

Sophie stirred in the ash. It dissolved into the cream base instantly. Now all she had to do was wait for the mixture to cool. She could hardly stand still, her excitement and impatience bubbled up inside her like champagne waiting to be uncorked. She stuck her finger into the pan, testing, again and again only to snatch it back and dance around waving her burned digit. Why was it taking so long for the damned stuff to cool? She had spells to make things hot as fire but none that did the opposite. She’d have to work on that.

Later.

At last, the mixture was cool enough to allow Sophie to spoon a portion onto a glass plate. She swirled it a bit, approving of the texture—not too greasy, not too dry. She lifted the plate and sniffed. A nice citrusy bouquet…with just a slight undercurrent of musk. She wrinkled her nose and sniffed again. The citrus was supposed to be there. The musk? She wasn’t too thrilled but realized that the musk was Mr. Deveraux. He was male, after all. Perhaps in the next batch she would add a stronger fragrance—essence of jasmine, maybe, or frangipani—to counteract it.

In any case, the scent was not important. It was time to sample the cream, to see if what she hoped was true.

Her hand shook a little as she scooped a portion onto two fingers. She crossed the room to watch in the mirror as she smoothed the moisturizer onto her face. It felt rich and luxurious on her skin. That was a good thing. It was absorbed quickly into her skin, leaving no greasy residue. Good, again. It tingled just a little. Sophie’s inspiration for when she took the stuff public. It gave the impression that there were active ingredients in the lotion, that it was doing something. An attribute of her original formula.

They were all attributes of her original formula.

So far, she saw and felt nothing new. No flush of rejuvenation. No tightening of the skin to signal a return to youthful firmness and texture.

Maybe she needed to give it more time.

She stared at her reflection. And waited.

And waited.

Finally, after fifteen minutes, she gave up. With a shrug, she turned away from the mirror. She wouldn’t let herself be too disappointed. This was only a first attempt, after all. She stared at the pan on the stove, wondering if she should give it another try tonight. But her tired feet and tight shoulders intervened, begging to be put to bed.

Sophie acquiesced with a sigh. She was exhausted. She locked the baggie with the remains of Mr. Deveraux in a drawer, flipped off the light, and went upstairs to lay her weary bones to rest.

When she awoke the next morning, the first thing Sophie did was rush into the bathroom to examine her face in the mirror. She’d had a dream that the cream worked. Her dreams were often portents of things to come and she believed in them.

But she could see nothing changed in the heart-shaped face that stared back at her. The tiny wrinkles still radiated out from the corners of her eyes. Her hair was still touched with gray at the temples, though she hadn’t really expected the cream would change her hair. Not unless she rubbed the stuff into it. She scolded herself in impatience for thinking such ridiculous thoughts. If she wanted to change her hair, there were plenty of conventional human products on the market to take care of it. No, she was looking for something different. Something to take the years away, not just cover them up.

She got dressed and went directly back down to the basement. This time she added a full teaspoon of the ash to a new batch of moisturizer. She applied it liberally and went about her day.

There were always lots of chores for a practicing witch. Besides her catering business, Sophie had clientele who came for readings or spells. There were herbs to gather, earth summonings to perform. She was an important witch in her part of the country, and a great deal of her time was spent in correspondence with others of similar station all around the world. Generally, the time passed quickly and she was content.

Today, however, Sophie felt restless and ill at ease. She couldn’t concentrate on her readings, had no interest in her spells. She ignored the weeds in her garden and cut short her correspondence on the Worldwide Witches Web, even though one of the messages was from her sister and marked “important.”

When at last evening arrived, she allowed herself to look in the mirror. She saw no remarkable changes. Actually, she saw no changes at all. She stared at her reflection and frowned bitterly.

Then she grew angry with herself. She recognized why her day had been unproductive and knew very well what was at the root of her restlessness. She had been self-indulgent, selfish, something very out of character. She had gotten caught up in a foolish daydream. She knew there was nothing (short of becoming vampire) that could reverse the signs of age. What had possessed her to even consider it? Especially since her own formulas worked a kind of magic in themselves and didn’t rely on immolated vampire dust to work.

No, better to proceed with her original formulas. They were pretty darned good when you thought about it. Look at her. She was eighty, for goodness sake, and no one ever believed it when she told them. Besides, even if the formula had worked, how did she think she’d get her hands on more vampire ash? More birthday candle accidents? How likely was that?

She hurried down to the basement, determined to throw Mr. Deveraux right into the trash. She opened the drawer and pulled out the baggie, even had her foot on the pedal that levitated the lid of the trash can, when something stayed her hand.

The dream.

The dream she’d had last night. She closed her eyes and conjured the image. In the dream, she had been standing right in this very place, at this very counter, and when her eyes had risen to the mirror, the face and body reflected there were hers but younger, prettier. Her lashes were long and luxurious, her lips full, her body lush. She was perfect. She was beautiful. The cream had not only transformed her face but had altered her entirely.

For a woman who had always been considered “plain” (though not unattractive, she was quick to amend), it was a captivating and alluring dream. And one she was, in reality, loathe to abandon.

And so Sophie made the decision to give it one more try. This time, she would add all that was left of Mr. Deveraux’s mortal remains to the cream in the bottom of her kettle. She did it quickly before she could change her mind. Then she scooped the mixture onto her fingers and smoothed it thickly onto her skin.

She didn’t stand around this time and wait for something to happen. She went straight to bed. If when she awoke in the morning, there was still no change, she would give it not one more thought. No, she’d proceed with her original plan and contact a witch she knew in real estate to start looking for an industrial site where she could manufacture her night cream. Her night cream. No more thoughts of adding vampire dust to a perfectly good product.

Sophie first heard the voice at 2:30 a.m. At least she thought it was a voice. It—something—made her sit straight up in bed, heart pounding. She looked around, wild-eyed and gasping. She was so frightened she dove back under the covers and waved her hand to illuminate every light in the house. Only when the cottage was aglow did she again peek out, eyes darting into every corner.

She was alone.

Sophie crept out of bed. She tiptoed from one room to the other, finding nothing amiss, no one (or thing) lurking anywhere. Just to be certain, she looked in every closet and peeked under the bed and under every large piece of furniture. She went from being frightened to embarrassed and then to feeling more than a little foolish.

What was wrong with her?

Sophie trudged into the basement. She was wide-awake now. Might as well clean up the mess she’d left after her unsuccessful experiments with Mr. Deveraux. As she moved around, sending pots and utensils into the sink to be scoured, she thought how fortunate it was that none of her witch friends had been here to see that mortifying display of cowardice. She would have been drummed out of the Witches’ Benevolent Society whose sole purpose was to come to the aid of fellow witches in times of peril. No one would have entrusted her safety to a witch that showed such a lack of courage, and because of what? An imagined whisper in a stupid dream.

Sophie looked around once the chores were done. She was keenly aware that deep inside her heart of hearts disappointment coiled like a serpent ready to pump its deadly poison into her psyche if she let it. Despite her best efforts to contain her optimism, she had wanted the cream to work. It would have elevated her in the human world, something from which Sophie had always felt separate and apart. It would have been her entrée into a world of celebrity and acceptance. She would have been welcomed and sought after because she could offer what no one else had ever been able to—a veritable fountain of youth. It would—

“My god, how long am I going to have to listen to this drivel?”

The voice was right at Sophie’s ear. She started and yelped in surprise and shock. She whirled around, fists at the ready, a curse of protection on her lips.

She was alone.

How could that be?

Her heart seemed ready to burst from her chest. “Who’s there?” she yelled, adrenaline making her voice fierce and harsh. “I am a powerful witch. If you don’t show yourself, I’ll send you to Hades in a million broken pieces.”

There was a chuckle. Once again, right at her ear. “I’m afraid you’ve fixed it so I can’t show myself. However, if you look in that mirror over there, we might be able to figure this out.”

The voice was masculine, authoritative, with a hint of a British accent.

Sophie didn’t move. She was afraid it might be a trick. There were, after all, lots of invisible beings in the spirit world and not all of them were friendly. In order to battle one, however, she had to know what she was dealing with.

“I have no idea what I am now,” the voice replied rather snippily, as if divining her thoughts. “You’ve fixed that, too. Now go over to the mirror. I’d like to know even if you don’t.”

Then, through no effort or will on Sophie’s part, her feet moved toward the mirror. She tried to stop, digging in her heels, grasping at the counter with both hands. It did no good. Her feet trudged onward, and some invisible force broke her grip. She was being inexorably drawn to the mirror like a puppet responding to a master’s tug on her strings. Her temper flared. Whatever this was might get her to the damned mirror but it couldn’t make her look.

She squeezed her eyes shut, even pressed the palms of her hands against her eyelids, refusing to give in.

“Oh, for the love of everything evil and unnatural in this world and the next, will you stop behaving like a child? You’re the one who did this. At least allow me to see what kind of hell you’ve trapped me in.”

Sophie began to panic. The voice was right. Whatever it was had taken up residence in her body. How is that possible? She knew of possession. But whatever this was did not feel like a devil, exactly. And she wasn’t levitating or spewing invective—

“Not yet anyway,” the voice said. “But if you don’t open your eyes in ten seconds, you’ll be spewing more than invective, I promise you.”

Sophie swallowed hard and took a deep breath. Okay. Let’s get this over with.

She opened one eye.

The other flew open all on its own.

Ye gods. What was she seeing?

She rubbed her eyes and raised them again to the mirror.

“What the—”

The voice managed to sound both amused and horrified at the same time.

Sophie’s right hand reached up and grasped her chin. It turned her head to the left and right and back again.

“You’re a girl.” This time the voice held only horror.

A girl.

Sophie couldn’t ignore the thrill that swept over her. The face in the mirror was hers. But not exactly. She looked twenty again, but not the twenty that had been her reality. This young woman’s perfect skin stretched smooth and unwrinkled over high cheekbones. Her lashes were long and luxurious, her lips full.

She stepped back a bit, to see the rest. A body that was lush, perfect. A body she had seen before. The body in her dream.

Sophie gasped. The cream had worked!

“Cream? What cream? What is going on?”

Sophie’s excitement morphed into irritation. The voice’s intrusion into her thoughts brought with it a wave of emotion different from her own. The voice had its own power over her feelings. She had two separate and distinct personalities inhabiting this one perfect body. And she knew who the second personality belonged to.

“Mr. Deveraux?” she whispered.

“You know who I am?”

She nodded at the mirror. “I think this is my fault.”

“Think?” This time the voice thundered. “What did you do, witch?”

Sophie’s shoulders slumped a little as she told him. She felt his anger and frustration and they flooded her with guilt. When she finished explaining, though, a shift occurred. His fury dissipated to be replaced by cold amusement at the absurdity of his predicament.

“So this is the result of a science experiment gone wrong?”

Sophie bristled. “Not gone wrong. Gone right, actually.”

“Oh? I am trapped inside the body of a girl witch. This is the way it was supposed to be?”

Sophie shrugged. “Well. Not entirely. You see, you were supposed to make me…” She pirouetted in front of the mirror. “Like this. But you weren’t supposed to come back. I mean, the mental part of you.”

Mr. Deveraux snorted. “How like a woman. Only wants a man for his body.”

Sophie felt color creep into her cheeks. “That’s not what I meant. I thought your ash—”

“Which is another thing you have to answer for,” he interrupted with an impatient huff. “What did you think you were doing, letting my wife handle such a dangerous thing as a blazing cake? What kind of caterer are you? Was this your first vampire affair?”

It was Sophie’s turn to interrupt with an indignant huff of her own. “Now just a minute. I warned her about the danger. Even offered to bring the cake in myself. She wouldn’t hear of it. In fact, she insisted it was her surprise and she wanted to present it.”

As soon as the words were spoken, Sophie and Mr. Deveraux were hit by the same thought. While Sophie’s reaction was shock, Mr. Deveraux’s was something quite different. Rage scorched through Sophie like an inferno.

“It was no accident.”

They spoke the words as one, not aloud but like an echo that bounced from one consciousness to the other.

Sophie was half afraid to ask the next question but felt she owed it to herself as well as Mr. Deveraux to find the answer.

“Why would she do such a thing?”

Mr. Deveraux did not answer. Sophie could sense a tornado of emotion emanating from him and ripping through her. A deep sadness gave way to disappointment and then surged again to fury before settling into an ominous sense of betrayal.

Through her memories of the night, Mr. Deveraux saw and interpreted his wife’s actions, and through his, Sophie felt the cart being thrust deliberately and firmly into his back. Mrs. Deveraux had not tripped, and when her husband turned, his coat on fire and fear stark on his face, she had smiled and turned away to stand in the shelter of the arms of a young man who had reached out to her.

Now another emotion, the desire for retribution, made bile rise in the back of Sophie’s throat.

“What are you going to do?” she asked.

That brought a chuckle that sent gooseflesh racing up Sophie’s arms. “You mean what are we going to do, don’t you?”

She shook her head. “I can’t be a part of malefic evil,” she said firmly. “I am a good witch.”

Mr. Deveraux grew quiet, Sophie grew uneasy. At last, Mr. Deveraux said, “Where are we anyway?”

His abrupt change of subject made Sophie suspicious but she decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. She turned so that her eyes swept the area. “This is my home.”

“You live in a—” He groped for the right word. “Warehouse?”

She shook her head. “This is the basement. Where I make my—” She stopped. Maybe she shouldn’t go into what she made. It might lead back to why they found themselves in this predicament to begin with.

It didn’t seem to matter to Mr. Deveraux anyway because he didn’t pursue it. “So show me the rest of the place,” he said. “I hope it’s nicer than this.”

Sophie bridled at his condescending tone. “It’s a very nice home. I happen to love it.”

“Then show me.”

Sophie started upstairs. Slowly. Even though she had been quick to snap at his insult, she was fully aware that Mr. Deveraux, until very recently, had lived in a mansion in the best part of the city. She, on the other hand, lived in a cottage on the edge of town, and while she did love it, he might not recognize its charm or appreciate its character.

And he did not.

When she completed the tour (it took about a minute), he lapsed into stunned silence.

Then he said, “Well. We can do something about this right off. We’re moving to the mansion. It does belong to me, after all.”

“But what about Mrs. Deveraux?” Sophie asked, trying to point out the obvious.

He snickered. “What about her? It will give me great pleasure to throw my wife out on her pretty butt. She and her boyfriend can find their own place to live.”

Sophie felt a chill. She didn’t ask how he planned to accomplish such a thing because she knew. Mr. Deveraux had no intention of throwing his wife out. He had something much more sinister in mind for her, and for the boyfriend. “I won’t be a party to murder,” she said.

She expected an outburst. Instead Mr. Deveraux changed tack again. “I think I’m hungry,” he said, his voice reflecting confusion and awe. “For food. Human food.”

Sophie panicked. Was he hungry for humans? Had he gone from drinking blood to actually craving the corporeal body? Was that a result of the melding of their species? She hadn’t had time to consider all the ramifications of a vampire and human commingling of the flesh. This one was pretty awful.

Mr. Deveraux started to laugh. “No, silly. I mean I’m hungry for steak. Steak and French fries. Maybe a beer.”

Sophie shook her head “I don’t have steak or beer,” she said. “I’m a vegetarian and I don’t drink alcohol. I could bake a potato for you though.”

A long, exasperated sigh escaped Mr. Deveraux’s lips. “For the first time in a century and a half, I can enjoy real food, and I get trapped inside a teetotaling vegetarian? Well, let’s get one thing straight right now, missy. If I have to live life as a woman, you are going to have to make a few concessions, too. And the first is finding me a steak and a beer.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” Sophie said. “I told you I don’t eat meat. I can’t even bear to touch it. You’ll have to learn to—”

Sophie didn’t finish the sentence. She couldn’t. Her breath was cut off. Pressure built in her chest. It felt as if Mr. Deveraux had inflated a balloon that squeezed against her heart and cut off her oxygen. Gasping, she fell to her knees. The pain got worse and her vision began to fade. She was losing consciousness, darkness closing in until it surrounded her, beat her down, and she knew what it felt like to be dying.

And then it was over.

Sophie rolled onto her back, panting and clutching at her chest.

Mr. Deveraux’s voice cut through her fear. “We have to coexist, Sophie. Let’s try to make the best of it.”

It was the first time he had used her name. Somehow it chilled her as nothing else before. She gathered her wits about her and sat up. Her nightgown had bunched up around her waist and she tugged it into place, embarrassed that she had so exposed herself. Mr. Deveraux seemed strangely absent from her mind, as if he was giving her time to compose herself. It did not comfort her. This demonstration had made it plain that he was in charge. He had given her physical beauty and taken away free will.

“Are you all right now?”

Sophie pushed herself into a standing position. “What do you think?”

He ignored the sarcasm. “Do you live alone?”

Another abrupt change of subject that sent ice through Sophie’s veins. “Yes.”

“No boyfriend? Husband?”

Sophie shrugged, “No.”

“Widowed, then?”

“No.”

Sophie felt a gentle probing of her mind and, more disturbingly, of her body. Then she felt Mr. Deveraux’s startled reaction. “You’re a virgin? You lived eighty human years and never had sex?”

He said it as if it was a terrible failing on Sophie’s part, as if she had somehow let him down.

“Oh, this gets better and better,” he moaned. “No red meat, no alcohol, and no sex. What fresh hell is this?”

Sophie squared her shoulders. “I wanted to save myself,” she said with great dignity. “For the man I loved.”

“Oh? How’d that work out for you?”

His disdain cut like a whip. It also triggered a flash of temper. “At least my wife didn’t set me on fire to get rid of me,” she snapped.

Mr. Deveraux lapsed again into silence. Sophie congratulated herself on the tiny victory and went into the kitchen. She could use a cup of tea.

“Coffee,” Mr. Deveraux corrected.

“No,” Sophie responded. “Tea.”

She waited for something to happen, for Mr. Deveraux to hurt her again, but he didn’t. Once again, he was strangely absent. He seemed to feel the same things she did. Perhaps his display of cruelty backfired because the pain inflicted on her came back to torture him.

She fixed the tea and sat down at the kitchen table. Her head spun with confusion and anxiety. She had no idea what she should do. On the one hand, she could live her dream. She was sitting here in the body of a beautiful twenty-year-old with the unlimited possibilities that offered. On the other hand, she shared that body with a man who could inflict pain. A man who was not very nice. Who might even be—she gulped at the thought—wicked.

She wished she could talk to someone about her dilemma. Her sister, maybe. But Belinda lived in San Diego and was caught up in some intrigue of her own. Besides, to Sophie’s dismay, Belinda teetered on the knife-edge of white and black magic. Sophie couldn’t always trust her advice.

Sophie sipped at her tea. She watched herself, her reflection caught in the window over the sink. Her hair fell in a straight, shiny sweep to her shoulders. Her eyes shone with bright expectation. If she saw this woman in a café or restaurant, she would be envious. Wonderful things happened for beautiful women. Boyfriends and husbands, families who showered them with love. Beautiful women learned early what they could get with a dazzling smile.

Sophie had never before possessed a dazzling smile.

Mr. Deveraux made fun of her when she said she had not had sex because she had saved herself. Sophie realized he probably knew the truth. No opportunities had ever presented themselves. She had never had a boyfriend.

“We’re going to do something about that.”

Mr. Deveraux was back. His tone this time was not caustic but actually cheerful. “I’ve been taking a test drive thorough the neighborhood,” he said brightly. “It’s not too bad in here. You’ve got a brain, a fairly good one for a female. Business sense. A knockout body. Sophie, you’ve got potential.”

Sophie was almost afraid to ask. “Potential for what?”

“Why, for just about anything. This night cream, for instance. Great idea. We can do something with it.”

Sophie shook her head. “I’ve been thinking about that. Look what happened to me—to us. If we started going around setting vampires on fire, it would certainly attract unwelcome attention from the community. Once or twice is an accident; more than that is war.”

He clucked his tongue. “No. You don’t understand. We’re not going to use ash.”

“What then?”

“We’re going to use blood.”

“Blood?”

“Yes. I’ve been thinking about it, too. You were correct in assuming the ash was the concentrated essence of a vampire. Concentrated being the key word. You got the whole enchilada. Something else I’d like to try, by the way. Blood, on the other hand, is a vampire’s source of physical energy. Blood keeps a vampire strong and controls the outward signs of aging. Get it?”

Sophie nodded. The way Mr. Deveraux explained it made perfect sense. If they added blood to her cream, the user would get the benefit of youthful beauty without—

What was she thinking?

Sophie squeaked in protest. “If we thought setting vampires on fire would be a problem,” she said, “what do you think will happen if we start bleeding them?”

“Well, I admit there are some wrinkles to iron out.”

He said it in an offhand, casual way that made Sophie wary. “What are you up to?” she asked.

He chuckled. “Well, conjoined less than a day and you have me figured out. All right. I’ll confess. We need a test subject, right?”

Sophie nodded.

“I have the perfect person in mind.”

Since it happened to be her mind, too, Sophie knew exactly who that perfect person was. “How do you expect to get Mrs. Deveraux to agree?”

A hush settled deep in Sophie’s consciousness. It was neither peaceful nor serene but heavy with foreboding. She shivered involuntarily.

“I cannot be a party to evil,” she said, for what seemed the thousandth time.

A flare of indignation burned through her. “You have already been a party to evil,” Mr. Deveraux answered with contempt. “You made the damned cake that murdered me.”

Sophie squirmed in the heat of his accusation. “Well, we won’t have to kill her, will we?”

In a flash the indignation was gone. “Of course not. What good would it do to kill her? We need to keep her alive to use her blood, don’t we? And if it works, we’ll pick only the most wicked vampires to drain. The gods know there are plenty of them around. Think about it, Sophie. We’ll be performing a public service. Ridding the world of bad vampires and offering mortal women the gift of beauty. It’s perfect.”

Sophie sighed. She couldn’t believe she was actually considering Mr. Deveraux’s plan. But some of what he said made sense. Mrs. Deveraux was not exactly an innocent. She had murdered her husband. On his birthday, no less. And there were lots of bad vampires around wreaking havoc and taking innocent lives. This would get them out of circulation.

Besides, she was a partner in this enterprise. She would use her good influence to counterbalance any evil Mr. Deveraux tried to sneak by her. Like exacting revenge on the guests at his party who carried on as if nothing had happened after his death.

Sophie knew Mr. Deveraux was sensing the shift in her thinking. She could feel it in the shifting of his own disposition. Warmth flooded her system.

“How are we going to approach her?” Sophie asked at last.

Mr. Deveraux greeted her question with a mental clap of approval. “That’s my girl. Sophie, this is going to be the start of a great adventure, I promise. Now go get dressed and throw some things in a suitcase.”

“Suitcase?”

“I told you we would be moving to the mansion.”

Sophie stood up slowly from the counter and looked around. “I’ve lived here a long time. Do we have to move?”

He released a snort of impatience. “You’ve seen the mansion. You can’t possibly expect me to live here.”

But when he sensed the spark of anger his remark provoked in Sophie, he added, “But we’ll keep this place. You can come visit anytime you want. How’s that?”

Sophie thought about it a minute. She had seen the mansion. And the grounds. And the cars. What would it hurt to experience them, too?

She moved toward her bedroom. “You didn’t answer my question,” she said. “How are we going to approach Mrs. Deveraux?”

Mr. Deveraux remained silent for the time it took Sophie to throw some things into a battered valise. She felt timid, at first, getting dressed with Mr. Deveraux here. But she did it by standing away from mirrors and only stepping in front of one to comb her hair. Seeing her reflection sent a thrill once more along her spine. She was truly, wonderfully beautiful.

Her dress, however, looked like a rag on her youthful frame.

Mr. Deveraux clucked his tongue. “We need to go shopping. Your taste in clothes runs to the archaic.”

Sophie didn’t argue. He was right.

She smiled at her reflection. She couldn’t help it. Just as she couldn’t help the thrill of anticipation coursing through her. Mr. Deveraux had said they were embarking on a great adventure. She’d never had a great adventure.

She turned away from the mirror and snatched up the suitcase. “Okay. What’s the plan?”

Mr. Deveraux was smiling, Sophie could feel it. “You promised my wife a party, right?”

Sophie nodded.

“Well, it just so happens that Mrs. Deveraux has a birthday of her own coming up. Next week, in fact.”

“Do you think she’ll recognize me?” Sophie asked, casting another approving glance at her reflection.

“Doesn’t matter. You can tell her you’re Sophie’s granddaughter. Her business manager.”

Sophie smiled. It could work.

“Of course it will work, Sophie,” Mr. Deveraux said. “It’s all going to work. Now let’s go see a woman about a party.”

Tanya Huff lives and writes in the wilds of Southern Ontario. Her twenty-two books run the gamut from heroic fantasy to space opera although she is probably best known for the Vicki Nelson Blood books—recently adapted for television as Blood Ties and showing on Lifetime in the United States and a CHUM affiliate in Canada. Her twenty-third book, The Heart of Valor, was a July 2007 release, and the sequel, Valor’s Trial, will be out in the spring of 2008. The following story is in the world of the Smoke books—Smoke and Shadows, Smoke and Mirrors, and Smoke and Ashes.

“What do you think of that?”

“The window display?”

“The shawl!”

Henry stepped closer to the Treasures of Thailand window and examined the lime green silk shawl draped more-or-less artistically over a papier-mâché mountain. “Nice,” he said after a moment, “but not your color. If I were you, I’d wear the turquoise.” A wave of his hand indicated a similar shawl hanging in the window’s “sky.”

“It’s not for me!” Tony Foster shot a scathing look at his companion.

“Ah, for Lee then. In that case, you need a deeper green.”

“It’s for Vicki!”

“Vicki?” Henry turned, frowning slightly, to see Tony staring at him with an expression of horrified disbelief.

“You didn’t forget. Don’t tell me you forgot. You must have gotten Celluci’s e-mail.”

“E-mails.” Over the last few weeks there had been a series of messages from Detective Sergeant Michael Celluci. Each of them had been as direct and to the point as the detective himself tended to be, falling somewhere between terse and rude, and each of them had been read and promptly deleted. “About Vicki’s birthday.”

“Right. So”—looking relieved, Tony nodded toward the shawl—“what do you think?”

“I think you’re unnecessarily concerned,” Henry told him. “It’s just a birthday.”

Tony stepped out into the middle of the sidewalk and stared at the bastard son of Henry VIII, once Duke of Richmond and Somerset, Marshal of the North, now vampire and romance writer, like he’d just grown another head. “Are you insane?”

Carolyn Haines has written more than fifty books. The latest in her Mississippi Delta series is Ham Bones. She also writes single titles. Hallowed Bones and Penumbra were named one of the top five mysteries of 2004 and 2006, respectively, by Library Journal, and Carolyn received an Alabama State Council on the Arts fellowship. An avid animal-rights supporter, she shares her home with nine cats, six dogs, and eight horses. Because no minute should go unused, Carolyn also teaches fiction at the University of South Alabama. Her website is www.carolynhaines.com.

It hasn’t rained for weeks, longer than anyone remembers. Each gust of wind carries tiny particles of dirt—soil shifting from place to place, fleeing across the borders of lawns, counties, and states. The land is on the move, as if it’s given up hope for America and is headed vaguely north, aiming to cross the border. It’s a long way to Canada from Mobile, Alabama.

The weather is all the talk in the grocery and feed stores, the nurseries and post office, places where I carry on the business of my life. Old men, as weathered and crinkly as the grass, study the sky that looks like spring and feels like Minnesota as they stand outside the Hickory Pit and the tractor dealership. They see nothing good. The climate is changing, and the farmers are catching the brunt of it. Gamblers at heart, they have no clue where to lay the odds in this New South of hard drought and hurricane.

Sitting in my pickup, waiting for a load of mulch and fertilizer while the heater blows ineffectually, I watch the dirt fly down Highway 45 in an orange cloud. Across the road, at the Stovalls’ abandoned nursery, a tulip tree sways purple against the clear blue sky of another cold, dry, windy day.

The late February winds, unusually strong for south Alabama, pick up the fallen petals of the tulip tree, and suddenly I see her shape against grass that glistens with melting frost. The coffee cup I hold slips from my nerveless fingers and drops to the floorboard. I never hear the crockery shatter, nor the tinkling of the wind chimes abandoned at the nursery. My world goes mute. Again.

She stands beneath the tree, beside barren hydrangeas and glossy green miniature gardenias that will permeate the April air with a scent as delicious as taste. How easily I’d assumed that spring was a season I’d experience—waiting has become my only game. I haven’t been to a doctor for fifteen years, but I feel healthy enough. Illness isn’t my destiny. She’s taught me that.

She nods at me, an acknowledgment of our pact, and then she’s gone. The bruised petals fall softly to the thawing ground. Bosco, my old coonhound, breaks into a long, low howl in the backseat of the truck. He understands who and what she is. The enemy.

Mobile isn’t the center of anything, merely a small port city on a bay where lazy rivers meet in one of the last untainted habitats in the Southeast. It’s a sleepy place with smiling, crocodile politicians one step removed from the horse thieves and slave traders who first took the land from the Choctaw Nation. While the town is physically beautiful, it lacks the sophistication of New Orleans, or at least pre-Katrina New Orleans. The Moral Majority holds sway in Mobile, those prunelike faces set against the joie de vivre that made New Orleans so special.

I should have left Mobile, but it’s because of her that I’ve remained here for so many years. Her and a certain ship’s captain who finds the empty downtown of old Mobile to his liking. No Disney creation, this pirate holds the answer to my dilemma.

Anxious in my grief and unable to sleep one long night, I walked the empty streets. By happenstance that evening, I saw him plying his trade in a dark alley, and I made it my business to learn his haunts and habits. He is my field of expertise, the most important element of my future. The cobblestone alleys of old Mobile are a perfect hunting ground for him, and one he returns to regularly, because in the dark of the moon, anything that’s truly desired can be found in old Mobile.

Once I deliver the mulch and fertilizer, I’ll put my plan into action. By moonrise, I’ll find him, the man, or some would call it a thing, who will help me.

To fully explain my story, I have to go back in time twenty years to a hot August day. Sometimes I forget that once I was another person. A wife and mother. A woman with dreams and expectations. To understand how I came to this point, the past has to be pulled out like so many wrinkled snapshots and examined.

It’s an irony, really, because I hate remembering. In memory, the images are so sharply focused they slice through the layers of alcohol I’ve used to pad my pain. People tell me that I live in the past, like that’s an accusation of moral degeneracy. “You live in the past” in their mind equates with “You killed your children.” Hardly. We all have a past. We all have a present. But not all of us have a future.

Once upon a time, I had a future. I had the family and job, the normal, boring things that Middle America takes so for granted. I also had a mortgage and a car note and nights when my husband and I made passionate love and forgot the dirty dishes in the sink, the piles of laundry waiting, and the spats about bills and babies. Today, none of those things trouble me. They’re all in the past, along with my heart.

On a too-hot August morning twenty years ago, I woke up plagued with a fever of unexplainable origin. The day was sweltering, even for south Alabama, and the humidity lay on my skin like a wool suit. We were in dog days, when it rains each afternoon and Mobile takes on the foliage of the tropics, thick and lush and green. Dennis had a breakfast meeting, and even though I felt terrible, I took Kala and Kevin to day care. My intention was to return home, shower, and go to work. I had a client meeting that couldn’t be missed, a big account, a cash bonus.

The antihistamine I’d taken in an effort to dry up my sniffles had left me feeling dizzy and disoriented. The twins, identical even in their moods, were quiet as I buckled them into the car seats and headed out, a cup of hot tea in my hand. The day care was only eight blocks away. Eight short blocks in a residential neighborhood shaded by live oaks that buckled sections of the sidewalk with gnarled roots.

I was almost there—I could see the day care sign with the happy alphabet letters spelling the name—when I saw her in the Darcy yard. I thought I was hallucinating, and I slowed the car for a better look. Some would call her a wind wraith, a substanceless creature of twigs and leaves, but she isn’t. Nor is she a sprite or fairy or gremlin. I stopped the car, completely stunned at this creature formed of debris and spinning air currents who beckoned to me from the shade of the Darcys’ yard. I didn’t know it then, but I know now what she is. She’s an angel. A dark angel with a list of names. At the top of her list were Kevin and Kala.

I never saw the Ozark Water delivery truck that hit me from behind. I never even had a chance to glance at my children in the rearview mirror. My seat belt stopped me from impaling myself on the steering column, but my forehead cracked the wheel, and I was knocked unconscious, or so they told me at the emergency room when I tried to tell the doctor what I’d seen. No one believed me, but it doesn’t stop it from being true.

From far away I heard sticks and sand pelting the windshield. Semiconscious, I fought to wake up, to protect my babies. A man yelled at my window, but I didn’t pay any attention to him. I watched her, standing at the passenger side of the car. Her hands reached through the car, lovely hands, fine boned and delicate. Kala took her hand first, then Kevin. Each one so trusting.

“No! No! Kala! Kevin!” I tried to call them back to me. “Don’t leave me. Don’t go.”

She held my children’s hands and shook her head at me. “I’ll be back for you,” she said.

“Don’t take them,” I begged. “Please. They’re only children. Take me instead.”

“It isn’t your time.”

Such a matter-of-fact answer for an event that would make me wish for death a million times over.

“Take me. Let my children have a chance to grow up. Kala wants to be a veterinarian. She wants to make animals well. And Kevin—” My voice broke and I couldn’t continue. “Dennis will be a good father. They’ll be fine without me. Take me.” I held out my wrists, offering the veins to the broken windshield for a slashing.

“It isn’t your time.” Her face was pale, the eyes dark and sad.

“Make it my time. Trade me for them.” Panic had begun to build beneath my ribs. My heart squeezed, and I hoped it was the first sign that a deal had been struck.

“You can’t bargain with death,” she said. “It’s either your time or not. This isn’t your time.”

Against the pain in my chest, I struggled to free myself from the seat belt that held me. “No!” I fought, but the belt was tight. “No!”

They backed away from the car. A shaft of sunlight touched Kala’s chestnut curls. Tears hung in her lashes. “Mama.” She held out her arms to me. Kevin bit his lip.

“Please!” I ignored the man tugging at the driver’s door, his face showing horror and panic. “Please don’t take them.”

“It’s their time.”

“That’s supposed to bring me comfort?” I wanted to kill her. I wanted to tear her fleshless body with my teeth, rending her apart. Anything to protect my children.

“Their purpose is done. Let them move forward.”

The pressure in my chest became unbearable, and I knew it wasn’t a heart attack. Grief had set up lodging. My new boarder had brought his full accommodation of pain. “For God’s sake, I’d rather be dead. Please, take me!”

She shook her head. “When your time comes, I’ll be back.”

They stepped out of the sunshine and slowly dissipated in the shade cast by the oaks.

“Please!”

I was still shrieking when the man got the door open and Mrs. Darcy reached in to grasp my hands that clawed at the air. She tried to calm me until the ambulance came, but I could tell by the tears on her face that my children were gone. Just like that, gone. As quick as snuffing out a match.

There was a funeral, which I don’t remember. For a year, Dennis tried to make a go of it, but he lost not only his children but his wife. No man should have to live with a zombie, and though Dennis tried, there was nothing he could do to bring life back to the husk of my body. I ate what I was forced to eat. I sat in the sun if someone led me there. I bathed if a bath was drawn. Mostly I sat in a rocker by the front window and watched for her. I knew I’d see her again.

After Dennis left me, I cut my wrists in a bathtub of warm water. It’s a funny thing, but I’d always expected it to be painless. Bleeding to death is excruciating. The body demands to live, no matter what the mind or spirit says. My lungs burned for oxygen. My starving heart suffered anguish. I felt agony, but I knew soon it would be over.

That’s when I saw her again. She stood in the doorway of the bathroom, a vague creature of swirling air currents and energy and bath powder. For a moment I saw the terrible beauty of her face as she shook her head.

“It isn’t your time, Sandra.” She held out a scroll, and for a split second, I thought I saw names written in blood. “Your name isn’t here.”

“Fuck you.” It’s hard to be witty while bleeding to death.

“You can’t cheat death,” she whispered. “And you can’t hurry it.”

“Where are my children?”

“Their destiny is no longer your concern. They’re where they’re supposed to be.”

With those words, I knew Kala and Kevin were forever lost to me. Death would not resolve my loss. “I hate you! You won’t win! I’ll do whatever is necessary.” My voice weakened.

She slipped closer and looked into the tub that was bright with warm blood. “It isn’t your time.”

She disappeared and I heard footsteps pounding up the staircase. Dennis to the rescue. Why couldn’t he leave it be? He could’ve collected the insurance money and been done with the guilt. But no, he’d come back to check on me. I hadn’t looked good. He’d been worried, had a bad feeling. Feeling guilty over the divorce, he’d come back to make sure I was okay. But, of course, I wasn’t. I was far from okay.

Two years later, the wounds on my wrists were hard to find. My new attitude—one of self-sufficient acceptance—had won my freedom from West Briar Estates, the place where crazies can get twenty-four-hour surveillance and legal pharmaceuticals to blur reality. Never make the mistake of telling a psychiatrist that you’ve had a conversation with Death; it’s a surefire ticket to involuntary incarceration. While under the watchful eye of the medical staff, I began to formulate my revenge.

I learned to smile and pretend an interest in the news and the visits of my nieces and nephews. Actually, I was interested in the news. I’d begun to catch glimpses of her in the newscast footage of violent slums, on the dusty roads of the Middle East, and in the mud villages of Central America as a flood swept houses away. She was always there, a half-formed face in the shuddering palm fronds or in a dust devil shifting across the desert. She was there, the Pied Piper of the dying. She’d always been there, but no one looked for her. Except me. I sought her out, gathering the tidbits that would become my arsenal.

When the doors of West Briar closed behind me, I moved into a lovely old home with screened porches and an acre of yard that Dennis bought for me. He’d remarried and his wife was pregnant. They both came to visit, to include me in the growth of their baby. No two people could have worked harder. So I feigned an interest and began to garden with spectacular results. I had a green thumb. Imagine that. Someone who watched for death could grow anything.

As the years passed and I waited to see her, my plan took shape. She’d sentenced me to a half life. When she took my children, she took my joy. She wouldn’t let me die. She said it wasn’t my time, as if she could dictate the end of a person’s life by a timetable worked up like a train schedule. Good. I’ve been waiting. I’ve arranged for a little surprise.

It begins tonight, symbolically enough, on my birthday. I saw his ship in the harbor last night while I walked the midnight streets, unafraid of harm because it “isn’t my time.”

Tonight I’ll be forty-three, a mother of dead children, a divorcée, a failed suicide. A winner.

The winter days are short, and I’ve watched the sun wane and the timid appearance of the gibbous moon. Somehow, I thought it might be full—too many superstitions and legends, I suppose.

My home isn’t far from downtown, which is my destination. Thank goodness it’s a weeknight. On weekends young people crowd Dauphin Street to drink and party and listen to music. Tonight, a Tuesday, the downtown will be quiet. The hunters will be out.

By the time I park my Volvo beside a meter, which I deliberately don’t feed, dusk has fallen like the soft kiss on a child’s sleeping brow. The Mobile River is only a few blocks away, and I can smell the water. The last, lingering businessmen and-women are hurrying out of downtown. Hurrying home, as out of control of their lives as I used to be.

Neon lights a few bars, and I go to Barnacle Bill’s. I’ve watched my pirate often enough to know this is where he’ll be. Just as I step to the doorway, a rustle of wind reveals her image. She’s in Bienville Square, a vague outline among the squirrels and homeless people who sleep on the park benches. She walks beside an old man, and he never senses her. I know exactly what she’d say. It isn’t his time.

I never considered that she might read my mind. Can she squeeze my heart at a distance? Can she send a blood clot streaming through my lungs? I’d always assumed she has to touch me, but I might be wrong. Now that would be a fatal mistake, so to speak.

I step into the darkness of Barnacle Bill’s and inhale the smell of stale smoke and spilled beer. Old men slouch at the bar, hovering over mugs of beer. I’m the only woman in the place, and that draws interest, for about ten seconds. One look at my face, and all the men turn back to the drinks they’re nursing. I’m not there for company.

A puff of smoke spirals from a corner so dark I can’t make out the features of the smoker. That’s where I want to be. I walk to the booth and sit, uninvited.

“I’m Sandra, and it’s my birthday,” I say. “I have a wish.”

“Fascinating.” The accent is impossible to place, a blend of French and Spanish and old South. Beautiful. Seductive. I hadn’t expected to feel that.

“Will you grant me a wish?” I have to clear my throat twice before I get the question out. I’m afraid. Fancy that. After all this time, all the planning, I’m afraid.

“Depends.”

“I know who you are. I know about you. I’ve done my homework. Mobile Bay, 1823, the ship Esmeralda. You were walking along the docks late one night. You felt a tap on your shoulder and then a bite on your neck. You come back to Mobile to commemorate your making, and to hunt.”

He leaned forward, his eyes so black I felt as if I were being pulled into bottomless darkness. “And what else do you think you know, cher?”

“I know you can give me peace. You can take my life and give me immortality.”

His hand, the fingers chill, brushes my cheek. His touch is sensual and also terrifying. This is the hand of Death that I’ve sought for the last half of my life, but death on my terms.

“It doesn’t always work that way, cher. This immortality you request comes in degrees and always with a price.”

When he smiles, I see the points of his fangs. His face is dark-hued, the color of coffee or a nut. His teeth are white and his hair jet-black, long and beautiful. He’s no older than forty-five, or maybe two hundred and forty-five.

“Death has come for me. She says it’s my time. After twenty years of begging to die, I refuse to do it on her schedule. She took my children. She took my life.” The anger hardens my words into rocks that I hurl at him. “She has her little list with my name at the top, but she won’t win this time.”

His laughter is sucked into the beer-sodden wood of the bar. I’ve amused him.

“You think to best Death.”

“I do.” I don’t hesitate. I stretch out my wrists. “I’ve wanted to die for a long time. Now I refuse—because it suits her.”

“So you want the bite of immortality. To what end?”

“You hold the power of life and death. You are her rival. I want you to win.”

His smile looks haunted, and he doesn’t answer immediately.

From the table beside us a pile of napkins whirl into the air. She’s here. She’s standing right beside me, her hand reaching out for mine.

“Help me. Please.” I ignore her and focus all of my powers of persuasion on him. I think that I shouldn’t have waited until the last minute. I should’ve come sooner.

Before I can blink, he’s swept me into his arms. In a blur of speed we’re out the back door and into the alley.

“Happy birthday, Sandra,” he says just before his teeth sink into my neck. This time the blood loss is erotic instead of painful. I feel my body grow limp. Soon I will sleep and awaken to a world where Death has no hold on me.

Tate Hallaway is the author of other works featuring the main characters in this story: Tall, Dark & Dead, published in May 2006, and Dead Sexy, published in May 2007. She’s intimately familiar with Midwest winters, having grown up in LaCrosse, Wisconsin. Tate currently lives in Saint Paul, Minnesota, with five monochromatic cats and her adorable four-year-old son, Mason.

Sebastian told me several times that his birthday was cursed. I didn’t really believe him, but when I found myself standing ankle deep in exhaust-smudged snow on the shoulder of County Highway 5 while Sebastian stared glumly at the engine block of our stalled car, I started to reconsider.

We were stuck. A broken broomstick handle propped open the hood of the ’90 Honda Civic. Sebastian usually drove a mint-condition classic car, but since it had no heater, it wasn’t especially suitable for Wisconsin winters. The Honda was a beater from Jensen’s, the garage where Sebastian worked. He had it on loan for as long as the bad weather lasted.

Sebastian held the distributor cap in his hands and was doing something to it with a fingernail file he had borrowed from my purse. The way he was dressed, it could be twenty degrees, instead of twenty below—no hat, no scarf, no gloves. In fact, all he had on as protection against the wind was one of those shapeless parkas, broken-in, loose-fitting jeans, and cowboy boots. He looked much more like a car mechanic than a vampire. Of course, he was a car mechanic—it was his day job. That’s right, you heard me, day job. Sebastian had been made by magic instead of by blood, and he could walk in the sunshine.

Not that there was much of that left.

The sunset threw pink and blue shadows over the frozen cornfields. In the fading light, icicles glittered from the eaves of a nearby abandoned barn. A dog howled in the distance. It would have been beautiful if it wasn’t so damned cold.

Despite the below-zero breeze pulling at his long black hair, Sebastian worked unhurriedly, impervious to the cold. The tips of his ears weren’t even red; I could feel mine burning under the fake fur of my hat. His composure in the bitter cold made him seem especially supernatural. When I took in a deep breath of icy air, my jaw clenched in a way that made my teeth actually chatter.

It must be nice to be dead.

Meanwhile, I was freezing my butt off. I looked great in my estate sale–find Harris Tweed wool coat, fluffy Russian hat, and fake-fur lined boots, but the skimpy little black number I had underneath everything let the cold seep in to the bone. Normally, a forecast of subzero temperatures suppressed my fashionista tendencies, but it was Sebastian’s birthday, and I’d wanted to glam things up. No doubt I looked absolutely fabulous underneath my winter layers, but a fat lot of good that did me right now. I was shivering so hard that my knees literally knocked together.

The deep blue shadows stretched in the fading rose-colored light, and above us, a highway light snapped on. Sebastian glanced up in the sudden illumination, and then glared at me for a short moment before going back to the distributor cap.

Sebastian hadn’t said much since the car sputtered and died twenty minutes ago, and I knew he was brooding. He hadn’t wanted to come out for his birthday. He said he’d never celebrated it in all the thousand-odd years of his life, and he hardly wanted to start now. It had never been a happy occasion for him.

He believed his birthday caused him to become a vampire.

Today was Christmas.

Apparently, the superstition at the time Sebastian was born was that sharing a birthday with Jesus was extremely bad juju—something about your parents engaging in earthly pleasures at the same time of year that the Virgin Mary had been divinely conceiving. Whatever. It made no sense at all to me, not being of a religious persuasion that concerned itself with Jesus’ birthday, but it was important to Sebastian. Plus, he had been reminded of this wickedness every single birthday. He told me once that the curse had become a kind of self-fulfilling prophecy, since he had pursued the “dark arts” of alchemy and witchcraft partly because people expected him to. If he hadn’t, he would never have discovered the formula that made him a vampire.

“Try it now, Garnet,” Sebastian shouted from somewhere under the hood. I slipped and slid over the frozen slush to the driver’s side. I scooted into the driver’s seat and shut the door to the wind. Depressing the clutch, I put my hand on the key and made a quick appeal to Pele, the Hawaiian goddess of fire. I closed my eyes and whispered, Give us a spark. Please.

When the engine turned over, I almost thought my prayers were answered. Then the noise stopped again, and this time, I had the distinct impression that something died—a metal-on-metal, grinding, final death.

“Nothing,” I shouted back as if he couldn’t tell. Having grown up with Midwestern winters, I couldn’t help but complete the traditional call-and-response of injured vehicles.

I waited for another word from Sebastian. Instead, he shut the hood with a firm finality, like closing the lid of a coffin.

I cranked down the window as he came around. I gave him a hopeful smile, but he shook his head. “It’s dead.”

I tried to remain perky. “It’s still early,” I said. “We could call a cab.”

Sebastian leaned against the driver’s side door, looking away from me. Crossing his arms in front of his chest despite the bulk of his parka, he stared out into the darkening fields. “Is anyone going to be working today?”

“The restaurant is open,” I reminded him. “As is the movie theater.” Despite being moderately sized, Madison—a left-leaning, radical, college town—had a large contingent of people for whom Christmas is just another day. In fact, I’d debated long and hard about whether or not to keep open the occult bookstore I managed but had decided to close it in deference to Sebastian’s birthday. It was winter break and my college-age staff was all at home enjoying roast turkey right about now, and I’d have had to staff the store myself. I’d wanted the day off to spend with Sebastian.

Sebastian fished through his pockets for his cell phone, but came up empty-handed. “Figures,” he sighed as we searched the car. “Benjamin must have walked off with it again.”

Benjamin was Sebastian’s resident house-ghost—well, poltergeist, really, since he had a tendency to toss things around when riled up. Still, it wasn’t like him to run off with Sebastian’s things. Benjamin was usually very loyal to Sebastian to the point of “defending” the house from all interlopers, even me. “What did you do to piss him off?”

“I’ve been thinking about rewallpapering Vivian’s room.”

“Are you insane?” Vivian was Benjamin’s wife, whom we suspected Benjamin had axe-murdered in that very room. Benjamin got especially crazy if anything in her bedroom was altered. In fact, Benjamin was so obsessed with keeping things precisely as they were, Sebastian could sometimes trick him into cleaning the place by moving some of Vivian’s things to other parts of the house.

Sebastian lifted his shoulders in a shrug barely visible through the thick down of his parka. “Why don’t we just go home?”

I would have been more excited about his suggestion if he’d sounded more “in the mood.” But I could hear the defeatism oozing from each syllable. Even so, part of me did want to just give up—the exact part being my frozen toes—but I was on a personal crusade to shake Sebastian of his birthday melancholia. He’d been carrying around this hatred of his birthday for a millennium. It was time for an attitude adjustment.

Sebastian’s farm was just about as far away from us now as Portobello Restaurant, where we had reservations in twenty minutes. We could still make it.

“I’m sure there’s a farmhouse nearby,” I said, rearranging my hat so it covered more of my ears. “We can call a cab from there.”

“For home.”

“For the restaurant.”

We got into one of those stare-downs where a normal person would just let the vampire win. The look of fierce intensity in those chestnut brown eyes with their eerie golden starburst pattern around the pupil said Back off. I, however, am a pigheaded Witch, and I’m somewhat careless with my sense of self-preservation.

“Come on.” I pasted a cheery smile on my face, despite the skin-numbing chill. Swinging the car door open, I strolled out into the frozen wasteland with a jaunty step. “It’ll be an adventure.”

For several steps I wondered if Sebastian was going to let me have this so-called adventure on my own. Then, in that silent way he had, he was suddenly beside me.

“You’re incorrigible,” he grunted, but there was the hint of a smile in his voice. Victory.

Elaine Viets is the author of two mystery series. Murder with Reservations is her sixth Dead-End Job novel. Her third Josie Marcus Mystery Shopper book, Accessory to Murder, will be out this fall. Elaine has won both the Anthony and Agatha Awards for her short stories. “Vampire Hours” is her first vampire story. She lives in Fort Lauderdale, across the water from a condo whose occupants were the inspiration for this story.

“It’s three o’clock in the morning, Katherine. Go to sleep.”

My husband, the surgeon. Eric barked orders even in the middle of the night.

“I can’t sleep,” I said.

“I have to be at the hospital in three hours. Turn off the light. And go see a doctor, will you? You’re a pain in the ass.”

Eric rolled away from me and pulled the pillow over his face.

I turned off the light. I felt like a disobedient child in my own home, as I listened to my husband of twenty-five years snore into his pillow. Eric could fall asleep anywhere, any time. Especially when he was in bed with me.

If I pushed his face into the pillow, could I smother him?

Probably not. Years of late-night emergency calls had given Eric an instant, unnatural alertness.

I lay alone on my side of the vast bed, stiff as a corpse in a coffin. My white negligee seemed more like a shroud than sexy sleepwear. My marriage to Eric was dead, and I knew it. I wanted him to love me, and hated myself for wanting a man so cold.

He wasn’t like that when we were first married. Then, he’d ripped off so many of my nightgowns, he’d bought me a thousand-dollar gift certificate at Victoria’s Secret. I’d model the latest addition and he’d rip it off again. Back then, he didn’t care if he had early surgery. We’d had wild, all-night sex.

A tear slipped down my cheek, and I cursed it. Tears came too easily these days, ever since menopause. “The change,” my mother had called it. Once, before I knew what those changes were, I’d looked forward to menopause. I wanted the monthly flow of blood to stop. I was tired of the bloat, the cramps, and the pain.

But the change was infinitely worse. Oh, the blood stopped, as promised. But nobody told me what would start: the weight gain, no matter how hard I dieted. How could I get fat on rice cakes and lettuce?

The change brought other changes. My skin started to sag along the jaw. The lines from my nose to my lips deepened into trenches. My neck looked like it belonged on a stewing hen.

And my husband, the old rooster, was chasing young chicks. I knew it, but I didn’t dare confront him. I’d seen what happened to my friends when they’d faced down their rich, powerful husbands. Elizabeth, courageous, I-won’t-stand-for-this Elizabeth, had been destroyed. She’d caught Zack, her husband of thirty years, groping some not-so-sweet young thing in the dim lights of the local bar. Elizabeth had fearlessly confronted Zack on the spot. She’d embarrassed him in front of his backslapping cronies.

Good old Zack hired a pinstriped shark—one of his bar buddies. Now the elegant Elizabeth lived in a cramped hotbox of an apartment, with a cat and a rattling air conditioner. She worked as a checker at the supermarket and barely made the rent. Elizabeth was on her feet all day and had the varicose veins to prove it.

I’d taken her out to a dreary lunch last month. I’d wanted to do something nice. We went to the club, where we’d always lunched in the old days, when she was still a member. Some of our friends didn’t recognize her. Poor Elizabeth, with her home-permed hair and unwaxed eyebrows, looked older than her mother. She was so exhausted, she could hardly keep up a conversation.

That same fate awaited me. I had to stall as long as I could, until I could figure out what to do with my life. If Eric dumped me now, I’d be at the supermarket asking my former friends, “Would you like paper or plastic?”

I’d be one more useless, used-up, middle-aged woman.

I was already. In seven days, I’ll be fifty-five years old. My future had never looked bleaker. I had no money and no job skills. My husband didn’t love me anymore. Happy birthday, Katherine.

“Lie still,” Eric snarled. “Quit twitching.”

I didn’t think I’d moved. Maybe Eric felt my inner restlessness. Maybe we were still connected enough for that.

But I couldn’t lie there another moment. Not even to save myself. I slid out of bed.

“Now what? Where are you going at this hour?” Eric demanded.

“I thought I’d get some fresh air. I’m going for a walk.”

Eric sat straight up, his gray hair wild, his long surgeon’s hands clutching the sheet to his hairy chest. “Are you crazy? You want to go outside in the middle of the night? After that woman was murdered two streets away?”

“People get murdered all the time in Fort Lauderdale,” I said.

“Not like that. Some freak drained her blood. They didn’t put that little detail in the papers. The city commission wants to avoid scaring the tourists. Dave at the medical examiner’s office told me. That woman hardly had a drop of blood left in her. She went for a walk at three in the morning and turned up drained dry. For Chrissakes, use your head.”

“All right,” I said. “I’ll sit on the balcony. I didn’t want to wake you.”

I put on my peignoir and padded into the living room. I never tired of the view from our condo. To the east was the dark, endless expanse of the Atlantic Ocean, lit by ancient stars. Straight down were the black waters of the Intracoastal. Across the little canal that ran alongside our building were the Dark Harbor condos. Those places started at three million dollars. But it wasn’t the money that fascinated me. Florida had lots of expensive condos. There was something about Dark Harbor. Something mysterious. Exciting. Exotic. Even at three in the morning.

I slid open the glass doors, careful not to make a sound. The warm night air caressed my cheek. I loved the night. Always had. Moon glow was kinder than the harsh Florida sun. I could hear the water softly lapping at the pilings on the dock, seven stories below.

Laughter drifted across the water, and the faint sounds of a chanteuse singing something in French. It was an old Édith Piaf song of love and loss.

There was a party in the Dark Harbor penthouse. Such a glamorous party. The men wore black tie. The women wore sleek black. They looked like me, only better, smoother, thinner. These were people in charge of their futures. They didn’t have my half-life as the soon-to-be-shed wife. They were more alive than I would ever be.

I sighed and turned away from my beautiful neighbors. I drifted back into our bedroom like a lost soul, crawled in next to my unloving husband, and fell into a fitful sleep.

Eric woke me up at five-thirty when he left for the hospital.

“Good-bye,” I said.

His only answer was a slammed door.

That night, while getting ready for bed, I looked in my dressing room mirror and panicked. I’d always had a cute figure, but now it had thickened. I had love handles. Where did those come from? I swear I didn’t have them two days ago. I burst into tears. I couldn’t help it.

I ran into the bathroom to stifle the sobs I knew would irritate Eric. But it was too late. “Now what?” he snarled. “I can’t take these mood swings. Get hormone replacement therapy or something.”

He was definitely getting something. I’d found the Viagra bottle in his drawer when I put away his socks. It was half empty. He wasn’t popping those pills for me. We hadn’t made love in months.

No pill would cure my problem. Not unless I took a whole bunch at once and drifted into the long sleep. That prospect was looking more attractive every day. Didn’t someone say, “The idea is to die young as late as possible”? Time was running out for me.

I spent another restless night, haunting the balcony like a ghost, watching another party across the way at Dark Harbour. Once again, I drifted off to sleep as Eric was getting ready for work.

Tuesday was a brilliant, sunlit day. Even I couldn’t feel gloomy. I was living in paradise. I put on my new Escada outfit—tight black jeans and a white jacket so soft, it was pettable. I smiled into the mirror. I looked good, thanks to top-notch tailoring and a body shaper that nearly strangled my middle.

I didn’t care. It nipped in my waist, lifted my behind, and thrust out my boobs. I sashayed out to the condo garage like a model on a catwalk. A sexy, young model.

I had a charity lunch at the Aldritch Hotel. I was eating—or rather, not eating—lunch to support the Drexal School. I didn’t have any children, but everyone in our circle supported the Drex. As a Drexal Angel, I paid one hundred dollars for a limp chicken Caesar salad and stale rolls.

My silver Jaguar roared up under the hotel portico. A hunky valet raced out to take my keys. The muscular valet ogled my long legs and sensational spike heels, and I felt that little frisson a woman gets when a handsome man thinks she’s hot.

Then his eyes reached my face and I saw his disappointment. The valet didn’t bother to hide it. I was old.

I handed him my keys. The valet tore off my ticket without another glance at me. I felt like he’d ripped my heart in half. I used to be a beauty. Heads would turn when I strutted into a room. Now if anyone stared at me, it was because I had a soup stain on my suit or toilet paper stuck on my shoe. I was becoming invisible.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the hotel’s automatic doors. Who was I kidding in my overpriced, overdressed outfit? I was losing my looks—and my husband.

I stopped in the ladies room to check my makeup. My lipstick had a nasty habit of creeping into the cracks at the lip line. I used my liner pencil, then stopped in a stall, grateful it had a floor-to-ceiling louvered door. I needed extra privacy to wriggle out of the body shaper.

I heard the restroom door open. Two women were talking. One sounded like my best friend, Margaret. The other was my neighbor, Patricia. I’d known them for years. I nearly called out, but they were deep in conversation and I didn’t want to interrupt.

“…such a cliché,” Margaret said, in her rich-girl drawl.

“I can’t believe it,” Patricia said. Her voice was a New York honk. “Eric is boinking his secretary?”

Eric. My husband, Eric? Panic squeezed me tighter than any body shaper. There were lots of Erics.

“Office manager,” Margaret said. “But it’s the same thing. She’s twenty-five, blond, and desperate to catch a doctor. It looks like Eric will let himself get caught.”

“Can you blame him?” Patricia honked. “Katherine’s let herself go.”

Katherine. No, there weren’t many Erics with Katherines. I felt sick. I sat down on the toilet seat and listened.

“She won’t even get an eye job,” Patricia said. “And her own husband is a plastic surgeon. How rejecting is that? Eric did my eyes. Then he did the rest of me.” Her words filled the room. I couldn’t escape them.

“You slept with him?” Margaret sounded mildly shocked.

“Everyone does,” Patricia said.

I could almost hear her shrug. I wanted to rush out and strangle her. I wanted to blacken her stretched eyelids. But I was half-dressed, and my jiggly middle would prove she was right.

“It’s part of the package,” Patricia said. “My skin never looked better than when I was getting Dr. Eric’s special injections.”

“You’re awful,” Margaret said. Then my best friend laughed.

“It’s part of my charm,” Patricia said. “But someone better clue in Katherine, so she can line up a good divorce lawyer before it’s too late.”

“It’s already too late,” Margaret said. “Eric’s already seen the best lawyer in Lauderdale, Jack Kellern.”

“And you didn’t tell Katherine that Eric hired Jack the Ripper?”

“How could I? He’s my husband.”

And you, Margaret, are my best friend. Or rather, you were. Margaret had also had her eyes done by Jack. Did she get the full package, too?

I waited until my faithless friends shut the restroom door. I rocked back and forth on the toilet in stunned misery. It was one thing to suspect your husband was playing around. It was another to learn of his betrayal—and your best friend’s. I was a joke, a laughingstock. I had even less time than I thought.

I pulled my clothes together, pasted on a smile, and found my table. A waitress set my salad in front of me. I studied the woman. She was about my age, with a weary face, limp brown hair, and thick, sensible shoes. This time next year, would I be serving salads to the ladies who lunched?

Only if I were lucky. I didn’t even have the skills to be a waitress. I picked at my salad but couldn’t eat a bite. No one noticed. Well-bred women didn’t have appetites.

A polite clink of silverware on glasses signaled that the headmaster was at the podium. He was a lean man with a good suit and a sycophantic smile.

“You’ve heard that Drexal has one of the finest academic records…” he began. My thoughts soon drifted away.

Menopause had killed my marriage, but it had been dying for a long time. I knew exactly when it had received the fatal wound: the day my husband asked to cut on me.

I was thirty-five, but looked ten years younger. Eric was itching to get out his scalpel and work on my face.

“Just let me do your eyes,” he said, “and take a few tucks. If you start early, you’ll look younger longer.”

“I look fine,” I said.

“You don’t trust me,” he said.

“Of course I do,” I said. “You’re the most successful plastic surgeon in Broward County.”

But not the most skilled. Eric was right. I didn’t trust him. He’d never killed anyone, unlike some Florida face sculptors. But I saw his work everywhere. I could recognize his patients: Caucasian women of a certain age with the telltale Chinese eyes and stretched skin.

Eric gave them face-lifts when no other doctor would. He’d give them as many as seven or eight, until their skin was so tight they could bikini wax their upper lip.

I pleaded fear of anesthesia. I invented an aunt who died from minor surgery when I was a child. But Eric knew the truth: I was afraid to let him touch me. I was his in every way, except one. I would not surrender to his knife.

For ten years, he never stopped trying. He nagged me for a full face-lift at forty. At forty-five, I knew I could probably use one, but still I wouldn’t submit.

“Nothing can make me twenty-five again,” I said. “I’ll take my chances with wrinkles.”

It was the worst rejection a plastic surgeon could have. I made him look bad. Everyone could see my lines and wrinkles. These normal signs of aging became an accusation. They said every woman but his wife believed Eric was a fine surgeon.

When I turned fifty, Eric quit asking. That’s when our hot nights together cooled. I suspected there were other women, but knew the affairs weren’t serious. Now things had changed. Eric was going to marry a twenty-five-year-old blonde. In another five years, she’d submit to his knife.

Suddenly, I was back in the hotel ballroom. The headmaster’s speech had reached its crescendo. “We have almost everything we need to make the Drexal School the finest educational institution in Broward County. Only one thing is missing. After today, we’ll have it all. I’m pleased to announce the creation of the Drexal Panthers—our own football team. Your donations have made it possible.”

The lunching mothers cheered wildly.

I looked down at my plate and realized I’d eaten an entire slice of chocolate cheesecake with raspberry sauce.

Worse, I hadn’t tasted one bite.

No wonder I was fat.

On the way home, I picked up some college catalogues. I made myself a stiff drink and settled into my favorite chair in the great room to study the glossy catalogues. I looked at careers for legal aides, dental assistants, and licensed practical nurses. One choice seemed more depressing than the other.

What had I wanted to be before I met Eric?

An English teacher. Back then, I saw myself teaching poetry to eager young minds, watching them open like flowers with the beauty of the written word. Now, I knew I couldn’t cope with the young ruffians at the public schools. Would the Drexal School hire an Angel down on her luck? Would the headmaster remember how often I’d lunched to make his dream team possible?

If I went back to college, how many years would I need to complete my degree? Would my life experience count for anything? What had I done in fifty-five years?

I fell asleep on the pile of catalogues. I woke up at midnight when I heard Eric unlock the door. I hid the catalogues with my arms, but he never noticed them. Or me. He went straight to bed without even saying good night.

I woke up at three. I couldn’t sleep through the night anymore. I kept vampire hours now. I drifted into the living room and watched the condo across the way. There was another party tonight. This time, the music seemed livelier, the guests more keyed up, more dramatically dressed, as if they were at some special ceremony.

Our condo walls seemed to close in on me. I slipped on my jeans and a cotton shirt. I was going for a walk along the water, even if it killed me. I’d rather risk death than suffocate inside.

The night air was delicious, cool but not cold. I was drawn to the lights of the Dark Harbor party, and picked my way along the docks until I was almost underneath its windows. I couldn’t see anything, but I could feel the contained excitement inside. The walls seemed to pulse with life.

“Wish you were here?”

I jumped at the voice—very rich, very male.

The man who came out of the shadows wore evening dress. His skin looked luminous in the moonlight. His hair was black with a slight curl. There was strength in his face, and a hint of cruelty. I couldn’t tell his age. He seemed beyond such ordinary measures.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to trespass,” I said.

“You aren’t trespassing, Katherine,” he said. “You spend a lot of time watching us, don’t you?”

“Am I that obvious?” I said.

“No,” he said. “But I feel your yearning. It makes you very beautiful—and very vulnerable.”

Inside the condo, there was a shriek of triumph, followed by polite tennis-match applause.

“Excuse me,” he said. “I must return to my guests. My name is Michael, by the way.”

“Will I see you again?” I said.

“If you want to,” he said.

He was gone. Only then did I wonder how he knew my name.

I floated back to my condo wrapped in soft, warm clouds of fantasy. How long had it been since any man had called me beautiful?

I was beautiful. Michael made me feel that way. I crawled into bed beside my husband and dreamed of another man.

In the morning, I woke up smiling and refreshed. For the first time in months, I didn’t check my mirror for more ravages. I didn’t need to. I was beautiful. Michael had said so. I was dreamy as a lovesick teenager, until the phone shattered the sweet silence at eleven a.m.

“Katherine, it’s Patricia.” Of course it was. She’d slept with my husband and confessed it in a public restroom. I’d know her honking voice anywhere. Except today it had a different note. She sounded subdued, even frightened. “Have you heard about Jack?”

“Jack who?” I said.

“Margaret’s Jack. They found his body in the parking lot of his law office early this morning.”

“What happened?” I said. “Was he mugged?”

“They don’t think so,” Patricia said. “The police say the murder didn’t take place there. They think he was abducted.”

“Kidnapped and murdered? But why?” Which wife killed him, I wondered. How many deserted women wished him dead?

“No one knows. But it gets worse. Jack’s body was drained of blood. Completely dry.”

“That’s awful,” I said. “I’ll go see Margaret immediately.”

I hung up the phone quickly, hoping to hide my elation. Jack the Ripper was dead—horribly dead. My husband no longer had a divorce lawyer. I felt a brief stab of shame for my selfish thoughts, but Jack’s death was poetic justice. Someone had sucked the blood out of the city’s biggest bloodsucker. Someone had given me more time.

I put on a navy pantsuit and a long face, and stopped by a smart specialty shop for a cheese tray and a bottle of wine. My long-dead mother would be proud. She’d taught me to bring food to a house of mourning.

There were other cars in Margaret’s driveway, including what looked like unmarked police cars and three silver Lexuses. Lawyers’ cars.

Margaret was a wreck. Her eyes were deeply bagged and swollen. Her jawline sagged nearly as badly as mine. All my husband’s fine work was undone. I felt petty for noticing. She’s a new widow, I told myself. Show some pity.

“Katherine!” Margaret ran weeping into my arms, smearing my jacket with makeup.

“I’m sorry,” I said, patting her nearly fleshless back. I could feel her thin bones. It wasn’t a lie. I was sorry for so many things, including the death of our friendship. Women need the sympathy of our own kind. Margaret had destroyed even that small comfort for me.

“Come into the garden where we can talk,” she said. “The police are searching Jack’s home office. Three lawyers from his firm and a court-appointed guardian are arguing over what papers they can take.”

We sat at an umbrella table near a bubbling fountain. Palms rustled overhead. Impatiens bloomed at our feet. It looked like every other garden in Florida. A Hispanic maid brought iced tea, lemon slices, and two kinds of artificial sweetener.

“May I have sugar, please?” I asked.

“Sugar?” the maid said, as if she’d never heard the word.

“You use sugar?” Margaret might be dazed with grief, but she was still surprised by my request. In our crowd, sleeping with a friend’s husband was a faux pas. Taking sugar in your tea was a serious sin.

“Doctor’s orders,” I said. “Sweeteners are out. Cancer in the family.”

Actually, I liked real sugar. And it was only eighteen calories a spoonful.

“How are you?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” Margaret said. Two more tears escaped her swollen eyelids. “I thought Jack was seeing someone, and that’s why he worked late so often these last few weeks. I was furious, but I couldn’t say anything. I was too afraid.”

“I understand,” I said.

She flushed with guilt.

“My husband went to see Jack,” I said. “So I know how you feel.”

Margaret had the grace to say nothing. I appreciated that.

“Do you think Jack’s lover killed him?” I said.

“I don’t know. I don’t even know now if he had a lover. One of the firm’s associates found Jack in the parking lot when she came to work at six this morning. Maybe he really had been working late. I had to identify him. Jack didn’t look dead so much as…empty. Someone took all his blood. It wasn’t some slashing attack. Just two holes in the side of his neck. There were bruises, too. Terrible bruises on his wrists, legs, and shoulders.”

“Was he beaten?” I asked.

“No. They think someone—or maybe more than one person—held him down while he was—while they—” Margaret couldn’t go on.

“Do the police think it was a serial killer?” I asked.

“They won’t say. But the way they’re acting, I know it’s strange. There were other attacks like this in Lauderdale. Jack wasn’t the only person to die like this.”

“No,” I said. “Eric told me that the woman found off of Bayview had been drained dry, too. He heard that from the medical examiner’s office. The police kept it out of the papers.”

“It’s like some nightmare,” Margaret said, “except I can’t wake up. Mindy is flying home this afternoon from college. This will be so hard for our daughter. Mindy idolized her father.” Margaret started weeping again.

I wasn’t sure what to do. If we’d still been friends, I would have folded Margaret in my arms. But she had betrayed me. I knew it, and she knew it.

I was saved by a homicide detective and a lawyer.

“Margaret,” the lawyer said, “I’m sorry to disturb you, but we have some more questions about your husband.”

“I’d better go,” I said. “I’ll let myself out.” I air-kissed her cheek. It took all my self-control to keep from running for my car.

Once, I would have called my husband and told him the awful news. Now I didn’t. What could I say? You know that lawyer you hired to strip me of my last dime? The son of a bitch was murdered. Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.

I suspected Eric already knew about Jack’s death. He was probably looking for a new bloodsucker.

I spent the afternoon taking calls from Margaret’s shocked friends, pretending to be sad and concerned and hating myself because I couldn’t feel any of it. Instead, I felt oddly excited. I broiled a skinless chicken breast, steamed some broccoli, and waited for my husband to come home.

At eleven o’clock, there was still no sign of Eric. He didn’t bother to phone me. I didn’t humiliate myself by calling around asking for him.

What if he turned up dead, like Jack? I wondered. Then my troubles would be over. I felt guilty even thinking that. But it was true.

At three in the morning, I woke up alone and drenched in sweat. Night sweats, another menopausal delight. I punched my soggy pillow and tried to settle back to sleep. At three-thirty, I gave up. I reached for my jeans, then abandoned that idea. Instead, I pulled out a long, nearly sheer hostess gown that looked glamorous in the soft moonlight.

I wasn’t going for a walk. I was going hunting. For Michael.

There was no party tonight. His condo was dark except for flickering candles in the living room and the opalescent light of a television. Michael was alone, like me. He couldn’t sleep, either.

He was waiting for me down by the Dark Harbor docks. At first, I heard nothing but the gentle slap of the water and the clinking of the halyards as the boats rocked back and forth. It was a peaceful sound. A light breeze ruffled my hair and pressed my gown against my body.

“You dressed for me, didn’t you?” he said.

Michael seemed to appear from nowhere. His white shirt, open at the throat and rolled at the sleeves, glowed in the moonlight. His hair was black as onyx, but so soft. I longed to run my fingers through it.

“Yes,” I said.

His hand touched my hair and traced the line of my neck. I stepped back. It wouldn’t do to seem too eager too soon.

Michael smiled, as if he could read my mind. “You don’t have to play games,” he said.

“I’m not playing games,” I said. “I’m being cautious. I don’t know anything about you. Are you married?”

“My wife has been dead for many years. I live alone.”

“You have such lovely parties.” I couldn’t keep the wistful note out of my voice.

“I have many friends. We enjoy the night.”

“I do, too,” I said. “I’m tired of the Florida sun. It burns the life out of everything.”

“You may be one of us,” Michael said. “I’d like to see more of you, before I go.”

“Go?” The word clutched at my heart. “Where are you going?”

“I’m selling the condo. Nobody stays long in Florida. You know that. Will you be here tomorrow night? May I see you again?”

“Three o’clock,” I said. “Same time, same place.”

There. I’d done it. I’d made a date with another man. My marriage was over, except for the legalities. It was time to face the future. Maybe, if I was lucky, I’d have Michael in my life. If not, I’d find someone else. He’d shown me that I was still attractive. I was grateful for that. I’d let Eric destroy my confidence.

I turned around for one last look, but Michael was gone. Only then did I realize he hadn’t asked if I was married. I wondered if he knew. Or cared.

Eric was waiting for me when I returned, tapping his foot like an impatient parent.

“Where were you?” he said.

“I could ask you the same question,” I said.

“I was with a patient,” he said.

“Administering more special injections?” I said. “Patricia says they’re wonderful for the complexion. I wouldn’t know. It’s been so long I’ve forgotten.”

“You’re certifiable.” Eric turned the attack back on me. He was good at that. “Jack is dead. Murdered! Some freak drank his blood. And you’re roaming the streets at night like an Alzheimer’s patient. I should hire a keeper.”

I should hire a hit man, I thought. But I held in my harsh words. I didn’t need Eric now. I had Michael.

“Good night,” I said. “I’m sleeping in the guest room.”

“You can’t—”

I didn’t stop to hear what I couldn’t do. I locked the guest room door and put fresh sheets on the bed. What I am doing? I wondered. I have a three a.m. rendezvous with a man I don’t know. There’s a murderer running loose in my neighborhood. Yet I’d never felt safer or more at peace. I slept blissfully until ten in the morning. I woke up with just enough time to get ready for my literacy board meeting.

As I walked into the dark paneled board room, I caught snatches of conversation: “he was drained dry…don’t know when they’ll have a funeral…Margaret is devastated.”

All anyone could talk about was Jack’s murder, at least until the board meeting started. Then we had to listen to Nancy blather on about bylaws changes. She’d kept the board tied up with this pointless minutiae for the last eight months.

Once I saw myself as a philanthropist, dispensing our money to improve the lives of the disadvantaged. But I’d sat on too many charity boards. Now I knew how little was possible. Here I was in another endless meeting, listening to a debate about whether the organization’s president should remain a figurehead or have a vote on the board.

How did this debate help one poor child learn to read? I wondered.

“Katherine?”

I looked up. The entire board was staring at me.

“How do you vote on the motion: yes or no?” Nancy asked.

“Yes.” I wasn’t saying yes to the motion, whatever it was. I was saying yes to a new life.

Mercifully, the board meeting was over at noon. I dodged any offers of lunch and went straight home. I spent three hours on the Internet, looking at my career options. Work couldn’t be any worse than board meetings. Then I’d get ready for my date with Michael.

By four that afternoon, I’d decided to become a librarian. It would only take another three years of college. The pay was decent. The benefits were not bad. The job prospects were good. I’d be a useful member of society, which was more than I could say for myself now.

I pushed away the memory of Elizabeth’s dreary apartment and made an appointment with a feminist lawyer. Tomorrow, we would discuss my divorce. Today, I wanted to think about my date with Michael.

I washed my hair, so it would have a soft curl. I applied a mango-honey face mask and swiped Eric’s razor to de-fuzz my legs. Eric hated when I did that. I hoped the dull razor would rip his face off tomorrow morning. I sprayed his shaving cream on my long legs. I was now covered with goo from head to toe. Naturally, the doorbell rang.

Who was that?

I looked out the peephole. A young woman with a cheap blond dye job was on my doorstep. Her skirt was some bright, shiny material, and her tight halter top barely covered her massive breasts. I’d seen her before, at Eric’s office.

“Just a minute,” I called, and quickly wiped off the shaving cream and the mango mask.

When I opened the door, I was hit by a gust of perfume.

“Yes?” I said. “You’re from Eric’s office. Is there a problem?”

“There is.” She boldly walked into my home and sat down on my couch. “My name is Dawn. I’m Eric’s office manager.”

And his lover. The recognition was a punch in the face. Eric was leaving me for this big-titted cliché. I stood there in silence, hoping to make this husband-stealing tramp squirm. She’d have to do the talking.

Dawn came right out with her request. “We want to get married,” she said.

“We?”

“Eric and I.”

“He’s married to me,” I said.

“That’s the problem, isn’t it?” Dawn smiled. She had small, feral teeth, and smooth skin. Eric would revel in that flawless skin. How my husband would love to put a knife into it. He had the gall to try to improve perfection.

“If you make it easy for me, I’ll make it easy for you,” Dawn said. “I’ll make sure you get a nice allowance. You drag us through the courts, and I’ll fight you every step of the way.”

“You’re threatening me in my own living room?” I said.

“It won’t be yours for long,” Dawn said. She looked around at my carefully decorated room. “No wonder Eric doesn’t like to hang here. It’s like a funeral parlor. White couches in Florida. Hello? Can you say corny? This place needs some life.

“Oh, dear, you’ve got some gunk on your forehead. Those do-it-yourself beauty treatments don’t work. Should have gone to your husband for help. You might still have time. But maybe not. He can only do so much.”

I sat there, speechless, while the little slut sauntered past me. I picked up the first thing I could find, a delicate gold-trimmed Limoges dish—a wedding present—and threw it at her. Too late. She’d already shut the door.

The dish shattered with a satisfying sound. Plates, glasses, candy dishes, even a soup tureen followed, until the hall’s marble floor was crunchy with smashed crockery and broken glass. It took me an hour to sweep it up and drop it down the trash chute. I knew Eric wouldn’t miss any of it. He wouldn’t even notice anything was gone. These were the things I loved. I wondered if the slut would be dining off my best china and drinking from my remaining wedding crystal. Over my dead body. Better yet, over hers.

I cleaned off the remnants of the mango-honey mask and shaved my legs with a shaky hand. I had a date with a man at three o’clock in the morning. What kind of time was that? I nicked my leg and watched a small drop of blood well up. Blood.

Three a.m. was a good time for a vampire.

That’s what Michael was, wasn’t he? Who else had drained Jack dry but a vampire? What else could Michael and his sleek, night-loving friends be?

I expected to feel shocked and horrified, but I didn’t. Michael and his friends did me a favor by killing Jack. If they’d killed Eric, I would have been the center of a murder investigation. Instead, they gave me a little more time to arrange my life before it self-destructed.

Was Michael a danger to me? I didn’t think so. If he’d wanted to kill me, he’d had many opportunities. No, Michael wanted more than a quick kill. But what, exactly? His conversation was full of innuendoes, invitations, and explanations.

“I feel your yearning. It makes you very beautiful—and very vulnerable.”

“My wife has been dead for many years. I live alone.”

“I have many friends. We enjoy the night.”

“You may be one of us.”

Michael had told me what he was, if I had listened carefully. Did I want to be one of his beautiful friends? Could I kill other people?

Depends, I thought. I could kill lawyers like Jack, doctors like my husband, and that little bitch who waltzed into my house and claimed my husband like a piece of lost luggage.

I wondered about the other woman who’d been drained dry. Who was she? Did she deserve to die? I didn’t have her name, but I knew the date she’d died and the street where she was found—Forty-seventh, off of Bayview.

A quick Internet search found the story in the Sun-Sentinel. The dead woman was forty-five, divorced, an IRS auditor. Another deserving victim. Another bloodsucker. Eric and I’d been audited one long, hot summer. The IRS found one small error, but the accountant and lawyer bills to defend ourselves were tremendous. We would have had more rights if we’d been accused of murder instead of cheating on our income tax.

Yes, I could kill an IRS auditor. I could hand out justice to the unjust. In my new life, I would punish the wicked. I would be super-woman—invisible by day, fearless by night. That beat being a divorced librarian living in a garden apartment.

I hardly tasted my dinner, I was so excited by my new life. Not that my dinner had much flavor: four ounces of boneless, skinless, joyless chicken and romaine with fat-free dressing.

For dessert, I treated myself to two ounces of dark chocolate and a delicious daydream of Michael. It had been a long time since any man had wanted me. And this man had so much to give me.

I watched the full moon rise and paced my condo. Eric didn’t come home that night. I didn’t expect him to. I was glad. I was in no mood to confront him.

I dug out my favorite black Armani dress. It was specially designed to cover my flaws. The high neck hid the crepe under my chin. The short sleeves disguised the unsightly wings under my arms that no workouts could eliminate. The short hem showed my legs at their best. I put on sexy high-heeled sandals. They were dangerous on the docks, but I was living dangerously these days.

Michael was waiting for me outside my condo. He’d come to me this time. His hair was black as a midnight ocean. His luminous skin was like moonlight on snow. He kissed me, and his lips were soft and surprisingly warm.

“You know who we are, don’t you?” he said.

“Yes,” I said. “I want to be like you.”

“You must be sure. You must have no illusions before you adopt our way of life. You must ask me any questions tonight.”

“Are you immortal?” I said.

“Almost,” he said. “We can be killed by fire, by sunlight, and by wooden stakes through the heart. All natural elements.”

“What about crosses and holy water?”

He laughed. “There were vampires long before there were Christians.”

“What will happen to me? How will I become one of you?”

“I will make you a vampire by giving you my blood. I will take yours. Don’t be frightened. It’s not painful. You’ll find it quite exhilarating. Once the transference is complete, you must make your first kill.”

“Will I change? Will I look different?”

“You’ll look like yourself, only more beautiful. Any wrinkles will vanish. Any physical flaws will disappear. You’ll quickly attain your ideal weight. Our people are never fat.”

Vampirism—the ultimate low-fat diet. I wanted to smile. But suddenly, I couldn’t joke. The changes were profound, and frightening. “I’ll never be able to eat food again.” I felt a sudden desperate pain at what I would have to give up.

“Do you eat now?” Michael said.

The question seemed ridiculous. “Of course,” I said.

“But do you like what you eat? Do you actually hunger for carrot sticks? Do you long for steamed broccoli and romaine with diet dressing?” He put his warm lips next to my ear and whispered, “When was the last time you had food you really wanted?”

I thought of the meals of my youth, when I could eat anything: fried chicken and cheeseburgers, crispy French fries lightly sprinkled with salt, hot fudge sundaes with warm whipped cream, crusty bread and butter.

“You haven’t had any of those in years, have you?” Michael said.

He could read my mind. I knew that now.

“You’ll never experience the pain of dieting again,” he said. “You will have no need for ordinary food. You will drink the food of the gods. Blood is offered to them as a sacrifice. You will take it for your own pleasure. It is a thrill you cannot imagine. You will still hunger, but now you will be satisfied. You are hungry, aren’t you? Even now, after your supper of skinless chicken.”

“Yes.” The pale, pathetic hunk of bird nearly turned my stomach. “I can do good, too,” I said. “I can feed on those who deserve to die.”

His eyes were suddenly darker, and I realized he was angry. “No! You must embrace the dark side like a lover. Any good you do will be accidental.”

“But Jack—” I began.

“When Rosette killed that bloodsucking lawyer, she made a lot of scorned wives happy. But Jack will be mourned by his daughter. Randall killed the IRS agent because she’d been auditing his books. She nearly drove him crazy, and he was innocent. But she was the sole support of her elderly mother. And, irritating though she was, the agent was an honest woman.

“You cannot fool yourself into believing that you will only feed on serial killers or child molesters. That is romantic nonsense.

“You are evil and you must choose it. Your killing will not make the world a better place. We kill for revenge, for sport, for reasons that are impossibly petty. Marissa once killed a dress shop clerk on Las Olas because she wouldn’t wait on her.”

“So you’ve killed more people in Fort Lauderdale than Jack and the IRS agent?” I said.

“Many more,” Michael said. “The details about the other bodies being exsanguinated did not make the papers. The police try to hide that information. When it becomes public, then it’s time for us to leave. That’s why we’re going tomorrow night.”

“What happened to the other bodies?”

Michael said nothing. He didn’t have to. I realized we were looking at the wide black ocean.

“Where will you go when you leave?” I said.

“The south of France,” he said. “I have a cottage by the sea. The air smells of lavender and the sound of the waves is wonderfully soothing.”

A small sigh escaped me. He was offering me such a beautiful life.

“Why me?” I asked. “There are millions of women like me, a little past our prime, abandoned by our husbands.”

“Do you define yourself only by your husband?” he asked. “I don’t think so. Americans have such boring ideas about age. Older cultures celebrate all aspects of a woman’s life. Americans only want youth, which can be the dullest time. I prefer a woman who has lived.

“And you are not like the others. You are strong. You have resisted the lemminglike urge for plastic surgery. It’s became a national obsession, but you fought it, even though it cost you your marriage and your comfortable life. You knew it wasn’t the right choice for you. That takes courage. You know who you are. Do you know what you are?”

For the first time, I knew I was someone special.

He took my hand. “I’d like you to join us,” he said. “I want you. Now that you know, you have only two choices: join us or die.”

“May I have twenty-four hours? I have some loose ends to tie up.”

“Yes. But, remember, no one will believe you if you go to the police. And we will be gone before they can get a search warrant.”

“I would never betray you,” I said. “You’ve already helped me. Did you encourage Rosette to kill Jack? For my sake?”

“I wish I could take credit,” Michael said. “But Jack was her idea. Still, I’m glad it helped you.”

Then he kissed my hand. “You have much to think about,” he said. “I hope you make the right decision.”

I left him feeling oddly lighthearted for a woman whose only choice was death: my real death, the living death of middle age, or the death-in-life of a vampire.

I slept well that night, or what was left of it. Then, at five-thirty, I was awakened by Eric slamming doors and opening drawers. He had four white shirts in plastic bags. I’d picked up those shirts for him from the best laundry in Lauderdale, prepared precisely the way he liked: hangers, no starch.

I sat up groggily in bed. “From now on,” I said, “have your slut pick up your laundry. That’s the last errand I’m running for you.”

“Don’t you dare call Dawn that,” Eric said.

“Dawn! What kind of name is that? Has it dawned on you how trite you are?” My bitterness burst like a lanced boil, and I was screaming like a fishwife. My husband yelled right back.

Our argument was interrupted by a pounding on our front door. Marvin, our condo security guard, was standing on the doorstep. He looked embarrassed. “I’m sorry,” he said. “But there have been complaints about the noise.”

We both apologized to the guard. Now my humiliation was complete. Eric walked out a few minutes later, clutching his fresh shirts by the hangers. “You’ll hear from my lawyer,” he said.

That was it. That was how he ended our quarter-century marriage, the day before my birthday.

He’d forgotten that, of course. He couldn’t even say, “I’m sorry, I’ve found someone else.” Eric wasn’t sorry, was he? But he would be.

I watched the sun rise on the last morning of my life. The new morning turned the air a pearlescent pink, and a shimmering fog drifted across the water. White birds skimmed along the Intracoastal.

I will never see this beauty again, I thought. But I didn’t have time to wallow in regret. I had things to do. I stopped at a diner for a last, lavish breakfast. The young, busty waitress was too busy flirting with a table full of businessmen to pay any attention to me. I could hear the cook ringing the bell in the kitchen. When the waitress finally brought my breakfast, the eggs had congealed to rubber and the home fries were coated with grease.

“This food is cold,” I said to the waitress.

“Huh?” she said, as if she’d just noticed me for the first time. Once again, I was the incredible, invisible middle-aged woman.

“I’ll get the cook to warm it up,” she said.

“Never mind,” I said. “I’m not hungry after all.”

I threw some money on the table and left. I’d lost my taste for food.

At ten o’clock, I was weeping in my lawyer’s office. The tears came easily, and they weren’t entirely false. Only the accusations were made up.

“Please help me,” I sobbed. “My husband is divorcing me. He has a new girlfriend and he hates me. They’re fighting about how soon they can get married. I’m in the way. I’m afraid Eric will harm me.”

“Harm you how?” the lawyer said.

She would look perfect on the witness stand during Eric’s murder trial, I thought. She was serious enough for the women to believe her, but sexy enough to get the men’s attention. There was something about her tailored black suit, tightly pulled-back hair, and horn-rimmed glasses that made men wonder what she’d look like without them.

“K-kill me,” I said. “Eric doesn’t let anyone stand in his way.”

“Have there been any threats?” the lawyer said.

“Nothing in front of witnesses,” I said. “But we had a terrible fight this morning, and he said he’d kill me if I didn’t give him a divorce and…I’m so embarrassed. Condo security had to knock on our door.”

“That’s good,” the lawyer said. “I mean, it’s not good, but it will help.”

She made plans to get a restraining order and told me to change the locks. Of course, I would tragically disappear before I could carry out her instructions.

It was after noon when I left the lawyer’s office, my least favorite time of day in Florida. The parking lot was baking in the harsh sun. It showed all the cracks in the buildings and the sidewalks—and in my lips and skin. I won’t miss this, I thought. Not one bit.

I wanted to treat myself to a special dress for this evening, my coming out. I strolled along Las Olas Boulevard, where all the smart shops were. The windows glowed with dresses in dramatic black and fabulous colors.

Black, I thought. Black was the right choice when you’re going to the dark side.

I entered a cool shop. A young saleswoman, who looked like a thinner version of Dawn, was talking to another clerk. They didn’t look up when I came in. They didn’t notice me.

“Excuse me,” I said. “May I have some help?”

The two young women smirked and rolled their eyes, and I understood why Marissa had killed her salesclerk. If I had more time in Lauderdale, I’d come back for this one.

But I didn’t. I bought the first dress I tried on. It didn’t fit quite right. I could see my drooping back in the mirror, the little rolls of fat at my waist. But they would be gone soon. In my new life, this dress would be spectacular.

As I left, I knew I’d made the right decision. Not about the dress. About my life. I would be invisible, but it would be my choice.

I would be powerful.

I would be beautiful forever.

I would get the blood back. It would flow again. It would flow into me, and I would feel the ecstasy. I would not be young, but I didn’t want to be young. The young were vulnerable, trusting, hurting. I never wanted to feel that way again.

I sat in my condo and thought about the rest of the night and the beginning of my new life.

When the sky began to bleed red, I walked once more through my condo, saying good-bye to all my things. It would be easy to give them up. I sat on the balcony until the sun set and the sky turned dark velvet. Then I dressed for my final night.

At midnight, I met Michael down by the docks. He was frighteningly beautiful.

“Have you made your choice?” he said.

“I choose you,” I said.

He kissed me. “I’m so glad,” he whispered. “Everyone is waiting for you. Who will be your first kill?”

“Dawn, Eric’s office manager. The police will find her bloodless body outside his clinic.”

“What about your husband?”

“I’ll let him live. It will be fun to see how he explains his drained and dead girlfriend and his missing wife. I’ll be gone, but I won’t take anything with me—no money from our bank account, no stocks, not even my jewelry. I’ll follow the trial on the Internet from the south of France.”

Michael smiled. “I’m sure we’ll all be entertained by the drama,” he said. “Happy birthday, Katherine.”

Toni L. P. Kelner is the author of the Laura Fleming Southern mystery series and the forthcoming Where Are They Now? series about a freelance entertainment writer who specializes in articles about the formerly famous. She has won the Agatha Award for best short story and the Romantic Times Career Achievement Award, and has been nominated for the Anthony, the Macavity and the Romantic Times Reviewers’ Choice awards. She lives in Massachusetts with her husband, fellow author Stephen P. Kelner Jr., and two daughters. Though she’s a longtime fan of vampire fiction, this is her first vampire story.

They stared at the tombstone. Or rather, Mark stared. Stella glared.

“Are you sure this is the right place?” Mark asked.

“Of course I’m sure!” she snapped.

“It’s been a while since you’ve been here, right? And the circumstances that night were pretty much tailor-made for making you forget the exact location.”

“I’m sure,” she said. “A person doesn’t just forget something like that!” She continued to glare at the tombstone, as if waiting for its current inhabitant to rise and answer her questions. “What I want to know is, who the hell is buried in my grave?”

“I told you this was morbid.”