Sharon Ashwood

SIGNET ECLIPSE

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First published by Signet Eclipse, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

First Printing. February 2009

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Printed in the United States of America

PUBLISHERS NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

Prologue

Being the evil Undead wasn't fun anymore. For one thing, it was increasingly hard to get a library card.

Even borrowing a book required identification. The same applied to finding an apartment, renting a movie, or leasing a car. Sure, in the old days there was the whole vampire mind-control thing, but now the world was one big bar code. Just try hypnotizing a computer.

In the end, it was easier to give in than to hide an entire subpopulation from the electronic age. The vampires—along with werewolves, gargoyles, and the ever-unpopular ghouls—emerged into the public eye at the turn of the century. While Y2K alarmists had predicted millennial upheaval, they sure hadn't seen this one coming.

Three Sisters Agency

Specializing in removal of

Hauntings * Poltergeists * Unwanted Imps

Keep your house happy, healthy, and human-friendly!

Best in the Pacific Northwest!

Holly Carver, Registered Witch

Chapter 1

"Why didn't you say you were calling about the old Flanders place?" Holly's words were hushed in the street's empty darkness.

Steve Raglan, her client, pulled off his cap and scratched the back of his head, the gesture sheepish yet defiant. "Would it have made a difference?"

"Uh-huh. I'm not giving a final cost estimate until I see inside." She let a smidgen of rising anxiety color her voice. "Why exactly did you buy this place?"

From where they stood at the curb, the streetlights showed enough of the property to work up a good case of dread. Three stories of Victorian elegance had crumbled to Gothic cliché. The house should have fit into the commercial bustle at the edge of the Fairview campus, where century-old homes served as offices, cafes or studios, but it sat vacant. During business hours, the area had a Bohemian charm. This place… not so much. Not in broad daylight, and especially not at night.

Gables and dormers sprouted at odd angles from the roof, black against the moon-hazed clouds. Pillars framed the shadowed maw of the entryway, and plywood covered an upstairs window like an eye patch. A real character place, all right.

"So," said Raglan, sounding a bit nervous himself, "can you kick its haunted butt?"

Holly choked down a wash of irritation. She was a witch, not a SWAT team. "I'll have to go in and take a look around." She loved most of her job, but she hated house work, and that didn't mean dusting. Some old places were smart, and neutralizing them was a dangerous, tricky business. They wanted to make you dinner in all the wrong ways. Lucky for Raglan, she needed tuition money. Badly. Tomorrow was the deadline to pay.

The chill September air was heavy with the tang of the ocean. Wind rustled the chestnut trees that lined the cramped street, sending an early fall of leaves scuttling along the gutters. The sound made Holly twitch, her nerves playing games. If she'd had more time, she would have come back to do the job when it was bright and sunny.

"Just pull its plug. I can't close the sale with it going all Amityville on the buyers," Raglan said. Fortyish, he wore a fretful expression, a plaid flannel shirt, and sweatpants with a rip in one thigh. Crossing his arms, he leaned like limp celery against his white SUV.

Raglan peeled himself off the door of the vehicle, taking a hesitant step toward the property. "It was on the market real cheap. One of those Phi Beta Feta Cheese frats was looking for a place. Thought I could fix it up for next to nothing and flip it to them. They don't care about looks, as long as there's plenty of room for a kegger."

Prompt payment—heck, advance payment—was unprecedented, un-Raglanish behavior. She usually had to beg. Holly stared at the money, not sure what to say, but she took it. He's worried. He's never worried. Then again, this was his first rogue house. Before this he'd only ever called her to bust plain old ghosts.

"Don't need much for this kind of job." She saw herself through his eyes—a short woman, mid-twenties, in jeans and sneakers, who drove a rusty old Hyundai. No magic wand, no ray guns, no Men in Black couture. Well, house busting—house taming… whatever—wasn't like in the movies. Tech toys weren't going to help.

She did have one prop. Holly pulled an elastic from the pocket of her windbreaker and scraped her long brown hair into a ponytail. The elastic was her uniform. When the hair was back, she was working.

"Surely you knew the Flanders house has a history of incidents," she said. "The real estate companies have to disclose when a property has… um… issues." Holly eyeballed the place, eerily certain it was eyeballing her back. As far as she knew, Raglan was the first to hire someone to de-spook this house. No one else had stuck around long enough to pony up the cash.

Raglan blew out his cheeks in a sigh, fiddling with a thread on his cuff. "I thought the whole haunted thing wouldn't matter. The kids from the fraternity thought it was cool. Silly bastards. The sale was all but a done deal up until yesterday."

Holly walked up to the fence and put one hand on the carved gatepost. The flaking paint felt rough on her fingers, the wood beneath crumbly with age. The house had a bad attitude, but still the neglect made her sad. The old place had been built from magic by a clan of witches, just like Holly's ancestors had built her home.

Houses like these were part of the family, halfway to sentience. They lived on the free-floating vitality that surrounded any busy witch household—the life, the activity, and especially the magic. It was that energy that kept them conscious. Take it away, and the result was a slow decline until they were nothing more than wood and brick.

Reports of abandoned, half-sentient houses came up every few years. Centuries of persecution, combined with a low birth rate, had taken their toll on the witches. There were only a dozen clans left in all of North America, most with a scant handful of survivors. As their population dwindled, their houses perished, too. Most of these old, dying places were just restless, but a few turned bad, fighting to survive.

Like this one. Only its designation as a historical landmark had saved it from demolition.

Holly's pity mixed with a lick of fear. A gentle tugging was trying to urge her through the gate. Gusts of chittering whispers draped over her body like an invisible shawl. A caress, of sorts. The mad old place was inviting her in, embracing her.

A starved house would drain power from any living person, leaving them tired and achy. A magic user, especially a witch, was much more vulnerable. They had so much more to take.

A flush prickled Holly's skin as her heart sped up, filling her mouth with the coppery taste of fright. The strain of keeping still, resisting the whispers, made her teeth hurt.

Come in, little girl. The path to the front door was just flagstones buried in moss and weeds, but to Holly's sight it glowed. It was the one path, the only important route she would ever take. Follow it and everything will be better. You'll be coming home at last. Holly, my dear, come to me.

Holly pulled her hand off the post, putting a few paces between her feet and the property line. Sweat plastered her shirt to her back.

She felt the touch of a hand on her sleeve, but she didn't jump. That particular pressure, the curve of those fingers, was familiar, expected. Instead her heart skittered with a roller-coaster swoop of bad-for-you pleasure.

Alessandro Caravelli was about six foot two, most of that long, lean legs. Curling wheat-blond hair fell past his shoulders, framing a long, strong-boned face that made Holly dream of fallen angels. The leather coat he wore had the scuffed, squashable look of an old favorite.

"I think the house had you." His voice still held faint traces of his native Italian, a slight warmth in the vowels. "I called your name, but you didn't hear me. I was crushed."

"True, and so is my ego." Alessandro gave a close-lipped smile that both invested meaning and denied it.

Holly pressed his hand where it rested on her sleeve, keeping the gesture light. Her pulse skipped at the coolness of his skin. Touching him was like petting a tiger or a wolf, fascinating but fearsome. Full of deadly secrets.

Some thrills were bad news. Working with a vampire was chancy enough; anything more would be insane. Besides, she already had a boyfriend—one who didn't bite. Still, that didn't stop the occasional soft-focus fantasy about Alessandro, involving satin sheets and whipped cream.

"So, this is the big, bad house on the menu," she said. There goes the food imagery again.

Dark as it was, Alessandro still wore shades. Now he slid them off, folding them with a flick of his wrist. The gesture was smooth as the swipe of a cat's paw, revealing eyes the same gold-shot brown as Baltic amber. He studied the Flanders property for a long moment, his face somber. Even after a year's acquaintance, he wasn't easy to read.

The sound of a car door opening made them both turn around. Raglan was standing by Alessandro's vehicle, peering in through the driver's side. The car was a sixties American dream machine, a red two-door T-Bird with custom chrome and smoked windows. Holly felt Alessandro coil like a startled cat. Where the car was concerned, he didn't share well.

The round headlights blinked on and off in an impertinent wink as Raglan fiddled with the dash. Alessandro always left the thing unlocked and half the time never removed the keys. To the vampire way of thinking, the car was his. No one would dare touch it. Until now he had been correct.

Raglan backed out of the car and slammed the door. "Sweet ride." Tension rolled off him as he skipped away from the car and gave a sheepish grin. He was acting out like a nervous little kid.

"Only for you," he said in a voice that whispered of cold, dead places. "But if he touches her again, he's dead."

Raglan cleared his throat. "Is this your partner? Pleased to meet you." He drew near but warily kept Holly between him and the vampire.

Oblivious, Raglan cast a glance at the house, and his expression went from strained to about-to-implode. "So, what now? Can you get started?"

"I'd like to check one thing first. You mentioned that something happened yesterday, something that made you call me," she said. "Can you tell us what, exactly? We need the specifics."

"Yeah, well, like I was saying, yesterday things went wrong." Raglan's voice shook.

Raglan hesitated a beat before going on, shutting his eyes. "From what I hear, four frat boys went in late yesterday afternoon for an end-of-vacation party. Not supposed to, because the final papers aren't signed yet, but they forced a window. Wanted to start christening the place, I guess. They never came out."

"Maybe they're still in there, sleeping it off?" Holly said hopefully. She knew denial was pointless, but it was traditional. Someone had to do it.

Raglan shook his head. "There's more to it than that. The police have already been around asking questions."

"They went through the house this afternoon, but didn't find a thing. The cops were spooked as hell, but there was no sign of the boys. That's when I called you."

"I can't help you if this is an open police investigation! Not without their permission."

"Please, Ms. Carver." Raglan wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, as if he was fighting nausea. "I'll never sell this place. I don't even dare go in it!"

A spike of anger took her breath away. Her voice turned to granite. "You didn't tell me any of this on the phone."

Raglan went on. "Two more went in this morning, some of the professors who were supposed to be, uh, academic sponsors for the fraternity. They never came out either. The department heads called the dean to complain."

"Six people have disappeared inside that house? Since yesterday? You couldn't have mentioned this on the phone?" She felt Alessandro's hand on her back, steadying her.

Raglan sucked in air, as though he'd forgotten to breathe for a while. "Ms. Carver, you've got to get those people out of there."

"Two questions, Raglan," asked Alessandro, his voice quiet and chill. "How did the department heads know what happened? Who called the police?"

"Witnesses," Raglan replied. "Neighbors saw the kids climbing in through the window. And then there was the screaming."

Chapter 2

Holly sorted through possible plans of attack. She had to get this exactly right. Six people are trapped inside.

Raglan was in his SUV, smoking a cigarette and settling himself to wait. Alessandro lounged against the fence, giving her the space to finish thinking. There was no 1-800 Haunted House Help Line she could call. She was it.

"Did you ever meet any of the Flanders family?" Alessandro asked, breaking into her gloomy thoughts. Now he was standing close enough that the folds of his coat were softly brushing her fingers. The caress of the leather was sensual, distracting.

"I was in high school when the last Flanders passed away," Holly replied. "Grandma said the family made the House of Usher look like Tiny Tim and the Cratchits. No wonder the old homestead went rogue."

"I dunno, because you might get to beat something up." She gave a wry smile. "You like that part. Plus, I pay you a percentage for it."

His expression was amused. The fitful light showed all the planes and hollows of his face, the strong nose and the long lines that ran beside his mouth. Fiercely individual. All too handsome.

"Nothing either of us would regret," he said. "Just some assistance with an investigation of my own. I have need of your special talents."

Holly frowned, curious. Alessandro ran his own collections agency, putting his natural vampire aggression to good use, but sometimes he took on less usual jobs. "What do you want me to do?"

His gaze traveled to Raglan's truck, cautious. "What do you know about summoning spells?" He dropped his voice to a whisper. "More specifically, how to track the magic user who is casting them?"

"So that I can rap their knuckles. Someone trashed a client's warehouse. He suspects sabotage. I found the remains of a ritual circle."

Holly folded her arms. "Wait a minute. Property damage? From a summoning spell?"

"Oh. Right." Holly considered. "I can do it, as long as no one's tried to cover up the evidence. Shielding spells are something else."

"I'm all about the small-M, bread-and-butter magic. I banish ghosts and find lost property. Magic with a big, bold capital M—necromancy and the like—is outside my usual sandbox."

"Absolutely. As you know, magic is always fun until your head blows up," Holly said, only half joking. Her last trip into big-M territory had left her power handicapped, almost like a quarterback who had blown a knee.

Holly wiped her sweating palms on her jeans. As usual, she had preperformance butterflies.

Alessandro pushed the gate open with his foot. The old iron hinges gave a wheezing squeak. They both paused, waiting for a reaction. The house was still and silent.

Vampires didn't need an invitation to enter a derelict property. Alessandro stepped through the gate, his posture poised and alert. She watched him move, pale hair swinging with the glide of his body. She followed, searching with her psychic senses. If Alessandro was ready for corporeal enemies, she could take care of the rest.

Holly felt the presence of the house ahead, curled like an animal waiting to pounce—not exactly patient, but willing to let them make the approach. "This house isn't almost sentient," she said in a low voice. "It's fully aware."

"Good to stay positive," Holly replied dryly. "Me, I like my evil entities stupid."

Half-buried paving stones zigzagged to the porch. Fronds of grass brushed her ankles, grit and moss making her soles slide with a wet, crunching noise that did nothing for her nerves. She could smell rotted fruit from beneath the apple and pear trees that filled the corners of the lot. No one had picked up the windfalls.

They were nearly to the porch before the house stirred, a whisper that sounded through the grass and leaves. Why are you bringing the dead to my doorway? Send the vampire away. I cannot use him.

"Precisely," Holly replied under her breath. Vampires were the perfect backup. Nothing ever wanted to eat them.

"It knows we're coming." Holly craned her neck, studying the scrollwork framing the porch. There were protective sigils carved into the crumbling wood, but the magic had long since faded away.

With a rustle of leather, Alessandro mounted the porch, a tall, broad shadow in the darkness. He pulled a slender black flashlight out of his pocket. He didn't really require it, but the extra light helped Holly. "Do you have the key?" he asked.

"We won't need it. It wants me to come in." She joined him on the porch, her footfalls human-loud.

Yes, come in, come in. She felt an impatient tugging, as if someone had her by the front of her jacket. Holly braced against it, but a sudden jerk made her stumble forward.

Alessandro caught her, strong hands pulling her against his side. Her shoulder collided with hard muscle, the cold metal of his coat buttons scraping against her cheek. He held her still for a moment, giving her time to find her feet.

"It thinks I'm literally a pushover." A hot thread of anger wound through her gut.

Come in, come in, come in. The words came from all sides, from inside her head and out. The voice split into a thousand different pairs of lips, a whispered chaos sipping at Holly's strength of mind. Meaning splintered, all logic crumbling apart.

Holly gripped Alessandro's arm, using the solid feel of him as a focus. Taking a long breath, she clenched her jaw, summoning the anger simmering just below her thoughts. The shards of her will drew together, pushing the invading, sibilant chorus away.

The door rattled, the sudden loud sound making Holly's skin crawl. Reluctantly she pulled away from Alessandro as he flicked on his flashlight, shining it on the lock. As she watched, the ornate handle turned, the paneled door sailing open and releasing a stale gust of wood rot and paint thinner. The entryway gaped, empty and dark.

Whispers swirled in the darkness, imitating the motes of dust dancing in the beam of the flashlight. Her stomach cold, Holly stepped over the threshold. The house's energy pressed in on her, a sinister brush of wings over her face and hands.

She thumbed on her own flashlight. The beam caught Alessandro's eyes, and they flared the radiant yellow of a cat's. Predator.

At the sight of those eyes, Holly jumped. She couldn't help herself. Instinct made her heart speed. He lifted his chin, nostrils flaring. Could he smell the quickening of her pulse? The sour tang of nerves?

Always interesting when your coworker counts you as a food group, Holly thought to herself. In the time they'd worked together he'd never given her cause to worry, but that faint whiff of doubt never went away, either.

"Where do you want to start?" he asked, the question reassuringly mundane. He flipped a light switch on and off, confirming that the power was out. The house was oddly quiet. Whatever magic had cut the electricity also muffled any outside noise.

Holly shone her light to the left. The beam showed a room that would probably have been the parlor. Holly walked forward, playing the light from side to side. The ceiling was high, a threadwork of cracks showing in the vaulted plaster. It was the kind of space that could have comfortably held plush, overstuffed Victorian furniture. Now the room was empty except for a cluster of paint cans and dirty rags, the source of the pervasive chemical smell.

Holly slowed her steps, slotting pieces of her plan together. "By the feel of this place, it's not going down without a fight. Once we find the six victims and get them out of here, I'll try to neutralize the house by breaking the original sentience spells. If that doesn't work, I may be calling the fire department for a more dramatic solution."

Something moved in the consciousness of the house, almost as though it flinched.

"Yeah, visual sweep first." She glanced around, reminding herself to watch for floating or falling objects. The house could fight with anything, and probably would before the night was over. With the beam of her flashlight arcing from side to side, Holly moved through the parlor, Alessandro at her elbow.

Someone had left a bagel wrapped in a Campus Joe's napkin and a newspaper. Alessandro picked up the top section of the paper. "It's today's."

"Must have belonged to one of the profs who came in this morning." Holly skimmed the headlines, irresistibly drawn by the heavy black type.

She remembered her boyfriend, Ben, going on and on about the vagrancy law and rent controls over breakfast. He was sadly both a morning person and a news junkie. He was already flying on back-to-school excitement, ready to resume teaching his economics students. By the first day of classes he'd be bouncing off the walls.

Alessandro tilted the paper toward his flashlight, centering the yellow beam on the hockey article before he dropped the paper back to the floor. "What's in the next room?"

Ahead stood a wide opening that might once have held pocket doors. Beyond was a long dining room, empty but for rotting drapes dangling from a thick oak rod. Alessandro took a step forward, but Holly caught his arm. "Wait. There's something here."

She glimpsed it from the corner of her eye, a glittering black flow in the darkness. "This is new." If she turned to look straight on, it disappeared. "It's right in front of us."

"What?" He was looking from side to side, his acute night vision still missing what her witch's eyes could see.

"I've never seen anything like this. It looks like someone's pouring down the night sky."

The flow broke through the ceiling, coursing down the wall to Holly's left like glittering black syrup. Points of light fell—or perhaps they rose—speeding and slowing, spiraling as the slow drape of thick liquid folded and pooled at the baseboard. From there the ooze snaked across the room inches from their feet, finally running between the cracks by the baseboard. It was impossible to tell which way the river of black progressed—from the basement to the ceiling or vice versa. It somehow looked like it did both at once.

What Holly could tell was that the sparkling blackness radiated a feeling of threat. A prickling sensation ran up her shins, as if an electrical charge surrounded the river, but that was only part of its disturbing presence. It was faintly warm, still fresh from whatever source disgorged it. She didn't know what would happen if they stepped in it, but one way or another, it wouldn't be good.

"Blood. Or something almost like it," said Alessandro, his voice hollow. "I can smell it."

Holly's stomach rolled over, his tone as disturbing as her thoughts. "It's not blood."

"I've heard of this happening in rogue houses, but I've never seen it before. A really bad house doesn't just absorb ambient energy, it goes on the attack. The black ooze is its… I dunno… its digestive system, I guess. It's hunting. It's draining the six people here. What you smell is… um… it's their lives." Her voice trailed off to a whisper.

"Up there." Holly pointed. "Or beneath us. I can't tell which way it's going. Wherever it begins, that's where we'll find our victims."

At her words, the river of darkness faded from sight. She had seen what the house wanted her to see. It was squeezing its victims dry.

If it was doing that to ordinary humans, what did it mean to do to a witch like her?

The energy level in the air dropped, dragging the temperature down to near freezing. The whispering voices in her head grew fainter, as if the house were drawing away to plan its next move.

This wasn't like any other house-gone-bad she had encountered. Usually they were evil but predictable. Hungry and dumb. This place, on the other hand, had done postgrad work in homicidal malevolence with a minor in seriously creepy, and she sensed it was just warming up.

Chapter 3

The broad oak steps to the upper floor were still covered by a runner tacked down with tiny brass rails, a touch of elegance left over from better times. Holly shone her flashlight up the stairway. There were some boxes and painting equipment left on the steps, but otherwise the coast looked clear.

The voices were all but silent, whispering among themselves. Holly ignored them, concentrating on stepping over a roll of builder's plastic. The beam of her flashlight caught something. A loaded backpack was lying on the small landing where the stairs turned at a right angle. Odd that the police hadn't taken it. Had they been so rattled by the house that they'd missed it?

"At least one of the students came this way," she said, mounting the stairs and kneeling to have a better look. The pack was a common enough style, navy with the Fairview U crest on the pocket. A stainless steel coffee mug was clipped to the strap. She had a similar pack herself, and so did Ben. He had bought them for the first day of classes, one of his sweet gestures. He was so proud of Holly for going back to school. The fact that she had been accepted to the School of Business, his own department, was the cherry on top.

"The pack looks like it was dropped in a hurry," Alessandro observed, scooping something off the landing. "Look. A cell phone fell out."

He flipped it open, but there was no signal. Not unusual in haunted houses. Something in the spooky vibes interfered with reception.

The top of the backpack was unzipped. Holly lifted the flap for a cursory glance. She didn't mean to spend time on a thorough examination. Who the owner was didn't matter, just the fact that they were lost in the terrible, whispering house. Then she saw what was inside, and recognized the sticker on the laptop: Economists supply it on demand.

Holly bowed her head, devastation sapping her strength. "Omigod, this is Ben's."

"Merda." Alessandro knelt beside her. "He must have been one of the professors Raglan said came looking for the students."

"He never said anything about sponsoring a frat. Damn it, where is he?" Holly rose and ran up the rest of the stairs. Had Ben said something about coming here this morning, and she'd just tuned out his breakfast monologue? Fear and guilt drove her heart, slamming it against her ribs.

The upstairs landing opened onto a large area flanked by two more hallways. A large drop cloth made a ghostly heap beside the banister. Holly looked from one side to the other, searching for some sign of the dark river she had seen in the dining room. Her mind felt suddenly sharp and clear, her thoughts ticking over with digital precision.

Alessandro stopped, lifting his head. He took a short, sharp breath and made a face. "There is death here."

The house's rustling deepened into a throaty female laugh, fading away into a soft chuckle. The house is a woman. The fact that it had a gender made things worse. It was more personal. Specific. And the house had Ben, who brought Holly coffee and bagels. Ben, who liked Thai food and classic cartoons and gave great foot massages. Holly's stomach curdled.

Give him back, house. She stalked down the hall, clutching the flashlight like a truncheon. Ten seconds, or you're plaster dust and kindling.

The last of the chuckle slipped away, leaving behind empty silence. Holly strode along, her heels loud on the hardwood. She flung open one door, then the next, pausing only long enough to sweep the empty spaces with her flashlight. All she saw were small, plain rooms with slanted ceilings in the far corners. Bedrooms, perhaps.

She thumped the wall in frustration. The center of the house's consciousness was nearby—she could feel it, but the exact location eluded her. "Give it up, Scrap Heap," Holly called out. "Where'd you put your playmates?"

Alessandro glided past her. He opened the last door in the hallway, pushing it open and then recoiling, poised and ready to fight. Holly marched toward him, barely slowing until he raised one hand, palm out. "Wait. This is the source of the black river," he said. "I can see it now, too. There was a look-away spell. That explains why the police didn't see any of this."

Holly stopped next to him in the doorway. He was right. It was there in plain, horrific view, none of the corner-of-the-eye stuff anymore. She swallowed hard, doing her best not to gag. There was the faint trace of heat she had felt before, now joined by a pungent smell, like hamburger left too long out of the fridge.

The blackness flowed along the slope of the old oak floor toward the outer wall, where it ran down into the dining room below. Six bodies lay covered in the sparkling ooze. One victim had tried to make it out the window on the far wall, but now lay slumped beneath it. Holly looked frantically from one to the next, trying to figure out which one was Ben.

The house sighed, low and intimate, as a tingling sensation swarmed up Holly's neck.

"I can't tell if they're alive," Alessandro said softly. "It all smells putrid. What were they doing up here?"

"They probably tried to save one another and got caught like flies in flypaper." Holly's voice was high and choked. She stepped forward carefully, making sure the toes of her shoes did not touch the black ooze. It would have worked, except the ooze edged toward her with a wet, sticky slurp.

Holly extended her fingers, giving off a blast of energy. She was gratified to see the blackness retreat from the thin stream of sparks. With hot, tingling bursts of power she chased it back a few feet, approaching the body closest to the door. She flicked off her flashlight, sparing the batteries, and worked by the faint light of her own power.

With a rustle of wind and fabric, Alessandro levitated to the other side of the room, his coat flaring around him. Holly ducked, startled, but was relieved to hear his boots hit dry floor. The ooze hadn't reached the far wall.

She felt the attention of the dark liquid shift to where Alessandro now stood. Black and slick as a seal's head, a pseudopod rose out of the muck, probing the air in the vampire's direction. Alessandro poked it with the end of his flashlight. The slime head lashed out, and Alessandro dodged with the air of a matador.

Alessandro danced away from the thing, his eyes flaring yellow. "It wants to fight. I'll keep it busy. You look for survivors."

He crouched, his smile giving a flash of fang. Normally that look made her shudder, but Holly was fresh out of fear. Let the vampire play with the slime monster. She had civilians to save.

The dead-meat smell clotted in Holly's throat, as choking as the worry that her strength would fizzle and leave her stranded in the sea of black. Worry became panic when she chased the ooze from the first body and saw what it had left behind.

The man had been big-boned and dark-haired, but now those bones held up a drapery of flesh sucked dry of life and substance. The face had collapsed like melted wax, flowing and pooling against the oak floor.

Holly made a noise in a voice she didn't recognize as her own and backed away. She stood a moment, panting, trying to pull herself together before she began working toward a second collapsed form that sprawled a few yards away. Was that one Ben? Fear made her thoughts scatter. What if he wasn't here? What then?

A wrench sailed through the air, smacking her on the shoulder. Her arm went numb, the stream of power flowing out her fingers sputtering like water from a pinched hose.

There was a toolbox in the corner, and now the contents were floating above it, missiles in the house's arsenal. She had seen this before—tawdry poltergeist nonsense, but it could hurt.

A hammer sailed through the air at Alessandro. In a blur of motion he snatched it mid-flight and used it to smack one of the pseudopods wriggling toward him. He was clearly enjoying himself in a Conan the Barbarian sort of way.

Holly batted an airborne caulking gun with the side of her flashlight and shuffled as fast as she could toward the next body, staying low to avoid the rain of tools. The second body wasn't Ben either. The young man looked pale and blue-lipped, the skin shriveled as if he had been in the bath too long, but he was alive. Holly felt a surge of joy.

"Hey. Hey!" She shook him by the shoulders, but he stayed limp, his mouth half-open.

The young man's breath came in short, shallow rasps. He was fighting for oxygen. She touched his throat and felt a faint pulse. The temperature of his flesh was far too low. He was alive now, but wouldn't survive for long without medical help.

The moisture the goo left behind dried almost instantly, leaving the man's russet hair caked and stiff. It looked like he'd been gelled by a herd of manic hairdressers.

"Don't worry; we'll get you out of here," Holly murmured in his ear. Grabbing his wrists, she dragged him toward the door, farther away from the slime, and then set off toward the figure slumped under the window. It looked like this one had tried to get out, but the window had jammed. The slime grew thicker over the body as Holly approached, ripples of sparkling black flowing toward it like an incoming tide. Apparently the house had figured out what Holly was doing and was rushing to stop her.

Something slammed into her back, hard, and fell with a clatter. The blow knocked Holly to her knees, her eyes filling with tears of pain. She twisted her head around to see the red tool box lying empty on the floor behind her. Damn it!

Glancing up at Alessandro, she understood why the house had thrown the box. It had run out of tools. Alessandro had caught them all, stuffing them in the capacious pockets of his coat.

"Yeah." At least it wasn't a power drill. She was going to be bruised in the morning.

Holly took a deep breath, forgetting everything but the body under the window. Now it was a shapeless mass, the outline of the limbs lost in ooze. She called her power one more time, digging deep she passed her hand over the blackness between her and the window, letting the energy flow. The goo retreated, allowing her to take two strides forward. She did it again, the heat of the releasing energy making the ends of her fingers burn.

With a rolling, rippling motion the thick mass peeled back from the slumped figure. His flesh was pallid as death but still untouched, still recognizable. It was Ben.

"Sweet Hecate!" Holly lunged forward, clasping his face in her hands. Her heart pounded so hard she could feel the beat in her lips. Please be okay. I'll do anything; just be okay. He was shivering and sticky, his brown hair matted against his skull. "Ben!"

His eyes drifted open. They were not the bright green of hers, but the green-brown of brushland in early spring. He couldn't quite seem to focus his gaze. Exhaustion made him look older than a man in his thirties. His jeans and denim jacket were soaked with foul moisture.

"Holly?" he asked, his voice just a rasp. Then he moved, clasping his arms to hold in what body heat he still had left.

She put her lips by his temple, smelling the soap-clean essence of him beneath the sullying muck of the house. She spoke softly, willing the words from her heart to his. "I'm here, Ben. I've come to take you home. I'd never leave you behind."

A moment of distraction had been all it took. The black river had crept around behind her, a gelatinous ripple drawing the ooze higher. As Holly turned to look, fingers of slime rose out of the mass, reaching for her leg. Freezing cold clamped her ankle. She cried out in shock, jerking away from the numbing clasp, but it held tight.

Alessandro landed behind her, lifting Ben with one hand and swinging him to a safe, dry corner of the floor. He grabbed Holly's arm, but she was caught in the slime. The house had what it wanted and was not about to let her go.

The chill invaded Holly in tendrils, in seeking fingers that delved into her flesh. It ran along her nerves, shooting up her leg and burrowing deep into her viscera.

The house had planned its strategy well. The struggle to save others from the black ooze had depleted her energy. She was a flickering bulb, a battery with only the dregs of life.

Terror blanked Holly's mind, a whiteout of fear. She had to… had to… Omigod. She was going to crack and shatter from sheer panic.

Shields! She invoked the image of brick walls. Hard, solid, strong. It was too little, too late. The house's energy wiggled through her defenses like the myriad arms of a squid, crumbling her shields to dust.

Weightlessness took over as her heart seemed to slow, her blood growing too sluggish to reach her head. She felt her knees buckle, but they felt like someone else's knees. Holly floated away, leaving her body to fall face-first into the killing blackness.

She couldn't breathe. Or move. She was a block of ice, facedown on the floor. Someone pulled at the back of her jacket, trying to haul her up. Dimly she thought she heard Alessandro cursing in Italian. It was hard to tell; she couldn't quite make out the words. He grabbed her arms and tried to pull her free. His fingers brushed the inside of her wrist, flesh to flesh. The touch was a spark on tinder. Her senses sprang open, flooding with his predator's hunger. Fierce. Primitive. The urge to survive.

Holly managed to open her eyes, but could not make a sound. Strong though it was, the spark flickered, wavered. The house was eating her up faster than she could fend it off.

"Damn you, Holly! Fight back!" Alessandro's voice was sharp-edged, nearly frantic.

Holly's fear blackened and curled, rage eating her terror in a hot burn. She had to use whatever strength she had in a concentrated burst. Not much could survive a full-on blast of enraged witch rammed right down its throat.

She lunged for her strongest power but smashed against the block of her old injury. It was scar tissue, opaque and impenetrable. There was no way to get past. Not without ripping it—and herself—to pieces.

Fine. The big-M magic was playing hard to get. She could summon it, but it would hurt like hell. Not fun, but her other option was death by goo, and that would just be embarrassing.

How about a little rock V roll, Demolition Sale? I rock and you roll your way to the salvage yard?

Watch me. In the maelstrom of her mind she began the invocation to call up her big-M magic. The spell coalesced, built, bulged, a pressure cooker charged with psychic steam. Holly felt the power moving inside, a snake sliding against her bones.

Alessandro released her, the hard muscles of his arms slipping away. No doubt his vampire senses told him she had finally made her move.

The power came fast, fire rushing down a tunnel. It felt as if her guts were slowly turning themselves inside out, pain bright as new copper. Heat burrowed up her spine, flaming where the icy cold had frozen, turning her skin white-hot. Arcs of light spiraled along her arms like twin serpents. She was glowing, the delicate bone structure of her hand merely a shadow inside the pink shell of her flesh.

Holly let the energy rip the house's magic apart, burning her nerves in a searing flash of heat. Sudden light flared. A bang. The smell of summer storms.

The black ooze hissed and bubbled where it touched her. It jerked away, scuttling back even as it melted to nothing. Holly pressed her forehead against the hard floorboards, flattening her body to connect with the physical house as much as she could. She had to give the power somewhere to go. Energy rushed through her like a current, far, far too much for the house's magic to handle. She stole a glance, lifting her head just long enough to see that the black river had sizzled down to a fast-vanishing puddle.

The glow was in the walls now, a faint hum washing through the air. Holly could feel the place shudder as the impact of the power blast reached the foundations. It resonated with her body, the sensation oddly intimate. Holly searched with her senses. The voices in the house were dead silent. Still. Gone. Zapped.

Nevertheless, Holly let the energy flow longer, making sure. She'd seen horror flicks. This house wasn't getting any sequels.

A head rush made her glad to be lying down. Tears of relief leaked from her eyes, drying as they touched her hot cheeks. Raising one hand, she stared at the light under her skin, mesmerized. Great Goddess, I'm still glowing!

But it wasn't over yet. Drawing on her broken power came at a cost. Holly's flesh tightened, her heart stuttering like a drum tumbling down a hill. She pulled her knees under her, struggling to draw breath, but her lungs were like stone. No air.

Sweat poured down her face. The glow faded. Now she was shaking. Her lungs grabbed a huge gasp, the instinct to live somehow cramming down the power, locking it away again.

And just when she thought the pain might be over, the aftermath hit—anguish so deep, it slashed each vertebra as it passed. Holly screamed a soundless word—she knew not what—and curled into a ball.

Chapter 4

Holly had lost track of time since the de-oozing of the hell house. Perhaps an hour had passed. Perhaps two. She couldn't tell.

She slumped on the curb in front of the house and watched as emergency vehicles jammed the street, adding a light show and a wailing chorus of sirens to the commotion. Police stood in a huddle on the lawn, taking possession of what was now considered a crime scene. A few car lengths to the right of where Holly sat, paramedics loaded the last of the unconscious victims into an ambulance.

She was alone. Ben was with the paramedics. The police were interviewing Raglan, who had called 911. She wasn't sure where Alessandro had gone. She needed to talk to all three men—for one thing, she wanted the rest of her fee from Raglan—but everywhere Holly went she was underfoot. It was better just to sit on the curb like an unwanted couch and wait for a break in the action.

Painkillers sang happy songs in her blood, blurring the edges of adrenaline aftermath. The ambulance guys had looked her over, but what could they do for a metaphysical injury? Medical science hadn't caught up to the needs of supernatural patients. The paramedics' solution had been two little green gelcaps—the same kind she used for migraines—and a bottle of water. At least the bistro down the street had brought hot coffee. When this was all over, she'd come back and put a blessing on the night staff.

Holly tried to run her hand through her hair, but it was stiff with dried slime and sweat. She smelled like ooze. If she were a sock, she'd throw herself out.

"Detective Macmillan." The man thrust a clipboard toward her. "I need you to sign this."

"Paperwork?" she said in a tone that made her sound as if she were dying. The police had already asked her ten thousand questions. Something about being discovered in a house full of dead bodies made them curious.

"Yes, ma'am." He gave a quick, rueful smile. Detective Macmillan was handsome, with dark, wavy hair and a slight scruff of beard probably due more to long hours than a bad-boy fashion statement. "The law moves in triplicate ways."

She gingerly took the clipboard. Staring at the form was useless. Between the pills and fatigue, the words were doing the can-can across the page.

Then the fire brigade arrived, big motors huffing. They maneuvered slowly, the long trucks navigating the narrow, overparked street with the skill of long practice. Bystanders thronging the road were forced to scamper out of the way.

"Murder brings its own audience. Supernatural murder is a chart topper." Macmillan shrugged. "If you sign the form, you get another cup of coffee. We practice only the finest in behavior modification theory."

He gave a microgrin that came and went in seconds, somehow all the more charming for its brevity. She couldn't help noticing the man knew how to dress, though his suit had the rumpled look of a long, hard day.

"A burn order on the house. I understand you were the certified investigator on the scene. After this many deaths, we can't let it stand."

Holly nodded. The Corporeal Entity Law stated that only beings adhering to a recognized definition of physical life were entitled to a trial. Sentient houses, along with ghosts, wraiths, and some demon forms, were deemed nonadherent and could be exterminated without a court order. All it took was her signature and the big, bad house would go up in smoke.

After that evening's fun and games, Holly was happy to sign. She scribbled something approximating her name and handed the clipboard back to Macmillan, awarding him a smile of her own.

With a flicker of relief, Holly realized that her job at the Flanders house was officially over. Burn, baby, burn.

Alessandro stalked through the house alone. The paramedics had come and gone, leaving only the dead and the Undead. It was a welcome respite from the growing chaos outside.

He had demanded that the ambulance attendants treat Holly first. When he had lifted her from the floor of the bedroom she had fainted. In a moment of panic, Alessandro's heart had begun to beat for the first time in a century.

It was the equivalent of a vampire heart attack Only the strongest emotions could revive and Undead heart. In this case fear for the woman he held in his arms.

Something was wrong with Holly. After heavy exertion—whether it was running a marathon or wielding magic—exhaustion was normal. The yelps of pain were not. There was a flaw in Holly's powers, an important weakness.

She had never told Alessandro about the condition. Like many others, she was friendly toward him, but that did not make him her friend. Not really.

Still, something clenched under his breastbone, a dull, forlorn ache. Alessandro was not prone to brooding over his lost humanity—after six centuries he either staked himself or got over it—but Undeath had its limitations.

Fortunately they said Holly would be fine. Fortunately the house—one of the worst he had seen—was a distraction from his uncomfortable thoughts.

Instinct drove him through the rooms that he had not yet explored, making him open every closet and cupboard to make sure the house was dead. He would not be satisfied until he walked its boundaries inside and out. Such was the nature of his kind.

But Holly had done her work well. Now the main floor of the house felt empty, like the carapace of a beetle long dead. Even the dust seemed dryer, limply coating the walls with streamers of filmy gray. He searched the crawl space and the main floor until all that remained was one last corner of the upstairs.

There was not much to see. He walked down the hall, opening doors. The rooms were empty, mirrors of the ones he had already visited. He thought he was finished.

Until he noticed that one of the paneled bedroom doors hovered behind a haze. Another look-away spell. It was a simple piece of magic meant to keep things hidden from the curious, like the police, or a real estate agent, or even Raglan and his workmen. Alessandro had found traces of similar enchantments here and there, including the room where they had fought the ooze. The charm on this door was the only one still active.

Such spells didn't work on vampires, at least not ones as old as Alessandro. Or, if they did, not for long.

The presence of the spell meant that there was more going on than just a house gone rogue. He turned the handle, shattering the magic.

A body sprawled on the bare wooden floor. Alessandro stood frozen, his hand on the doorknob. The figure had collapsed on her stomach, her head turned toward him, eyes open, but unequivocally dead.

Slowly he stepped inside the room. Death did not shock him, but he was surprised. Usually the smell of a corpse was obvious to a vampire. Either the spell had hidden the stench, or it had blended in among all the other death in the house.

He switched on the overhead light. He didn't need it, but felt marginally comforted.

Sprawled just inches from his feet, the still, silent body told its story. She had been a student, judging by the Fairview U hoodie. Blond. Slim. Bare feet in bright white canvas shoes that were laced in a soft pink. She had probably been pretty, but a morbid hue stole her beauty. Alessandro guessed she had been about nineteen.

The police need to know about this. But the visuals held him; he was too affronted to move.

Her feet were lashed with yellow nylon rope, a wad of cloth stuffed in her mouth. Shallow slashes scored her flesh, signs of obvious cruelty. The last—so unnecessary—stiffened Alessandro's shoulders. There was a difference between a hunter and a brute.

Bending closer, he gave an experimental sniff. Cold. Dead a day, at least. No drugs that he could detect, just the sour residue of terror. Alessandro tasted the air again, letting his senses do their work. No more than a lick of blood remained in her veins, but there was only a spatter on the floor and her clothes. She had been sucked dry, her throat chewed open.

A news report, half heard, half forgotten, tugged at Alessandro's memory. Murders on campus. He had assumed it was a human affair. There had been no mention of neck wounds, but perhaps the police had held that information back.

No human did this. Behind the smell of death and fear was the stink of something other. A magic user.

But was it a vampire? No one he knew would do this, and Alessandro was the vampire queen's representative in Fairview. A newcomer to town would have paid his respects as soon as he or she arrived. No such overture had been made.

Besides, the injury was wrong. A vampire bite was sharp but neat, the corner fangs large on top, less pronounced on the bottom. The wounds on the girl were obscured, more suggestive of gnawing than a clean bite.

A ghoul? There again, it would make more mess. Lots more. It would eat the flesh.

A demon? There were a lot of subspecies, each with its own dining habits, each more appalling than the last.

Alessandro shuddered, his flesh crawling under the wool and leather layers of his clothes. There was no power on earth, above or below, that could induce him to tolerate a demon in his town. It could lay waste to the campus. To Fairview. He'd seen them in action before. The stuff of nightmares, even for a vampire.

Alessandro could feel his heart beating again, a sure sign of stress. The smell in the room was cloying. He cleared his throat.

Time was running out. He could hear the activity outside. Soon the police would be in the house, fouling everything with noise and human odors. He crouched, looking closely for any more clues. There it was again, that scent. He rocked back onto his heels, his head starting to ache with the effort to place that smell. It was vampire with a chaser of… what?

The girl on the floor looked so vulnerable, so lonely under the dirty glare of light. She had not died well. From the position of the body, the girl seemed to have been thrown down. One hand reached up, as if she had tried to protect her face from the fall.

Vampires weren't gentle, but this level of violence was atypical. She might have even died before she was drained. Humans broke so easily.

Alessandro tilted his head, catching sight of something glinting in the girl's upflung hand. He dared not touch her. Vampires left fingerprints just like humans. He pulled out a pen and poked at her fingers, loosening the object in her grasp. Something hit the wooden floor with a clink. Alessandro pinned the object with the tip of the pen, scooting it along the floorboard until he could see what it was.

Cold dread congealed in his gut. The round, flat metal object was familiar. He had one just like it, a gift from his sire centuries ago.

The size of a quarter, the copper disk was old, rubbed thin, the edges slightly ragged. The design was worn away, but Alessandro could still make out the figure of Orpheus, the hero from Greek myth. In one hand he held a lyre; his other rested on the head of a lion.

In legend Orpheus sang so sweetly the wild beasts wept. His song was so powerful that he could walk through the Underworld in safety, for he charmed even the god of the dead.

Vampires left the Orpheus token as a blessing, a gift to ensure that the soul of their prey would travel in peace and safety. It was a ritual of respect that Alessandro hadn't seen practiced for hundreds of years. Tokens were rare. The one in the girl's hand dated from the Middle Ages.

Apprehension prickled Alessandro's skin. Apprehension, and a primal need to answer the challenge. He picked up the token and slipped it into his pocket along with his pen.

Alessandro got up and looked out the small, dirty window. The night outside rustled and glittered, a breeze sending the dry leaves and branches flickering across the campus lights. Close up was the university, and a little farther away the community college that shared its grounds. He could see the clock tower and neon signs of the Student Union Building. Through it all streamed the endless glowing pinpoints that signified thousands of human lives.

A new noise scattered his thoughts. Heavy men with heavy boots clumped up the stairs. The police had arrived. The look-away spell had been broken.

Alessandro switched off the room light and closed the door. That would buy him a little time, nothing more. He returned to the window and pulled on the old double-hung frame. It was painted shut. By the sound of the footfalls, Alessandro could tell the first of the policemen had reached the second floor.

A wave of frustration made him reckless. He shoved up the sash with a shuddering crash of splintering wood and paint. A gust of damp, cold air swirled into the room, sweet and clean after the stink of old death.

Predictably, the noise was followed by a yell from one of the cops. The window's opening was narrow, but Alessandro dived through, fragments of broken frame clawing at his clothes and hair.

The night air caught his momentum, floating him through the darkness. Speed made him a fleeting shadow against the bright sea of campus lights, a momentary tingle down the necks of the bystanders. The flight was short, but the thrill drove out the anxiety feasting on his soul.

Landing in the murky blackness of a neighboring lane, Alessandro crouched, listening. Nothing. He was safe. A slow smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

There was a hunt awaiting. A war for territory. A worthy, challenging, dangerous opponent, someone clearly spoiling for a fight.

I'll find you, Old One. The world of cell phones, credit checks, and taxation faded into insignificance. Alessandro was a creature of the rustling night, ready to protect what was his.

Chapter 5

Macmillan left Holly where she sat on the curb, taking away the signed burn order on the house. Holly shifted, her rump numb from the cold concrete. The happy drugs still had her in a haze, sapping the urge to do anything but sit and drool.

On a good day, if someone had asked her what she wanted in life, she would have said business success, a college degree, and a cute boyfriend with husband potential. At the moment she would have settled for a cushion and a warmer coat.

A few minutes later another flurry of police cruisers arrived, lights flashing. Had something new happened?

"Ms. Carver." One of the paramedics, a thin, balding man, was walking toward her. "Mr. Elliot is asking for you."

"Dr. Elliot," she said automatically. "Ben's a professor." His specialty was in fifth-world macroeconomics, which sounded to Holly like a soy-based breakfast cereal or a grunge band with intellectual pretensions. Nevertheless, Ben was apparently brilliant.

Holly got up slowly, her legs stiff. The temperature was dropping, an icy, damp wind picking up. There would be rain before morning.

The man turned. "Mr.—Dr.—Elliot is refusing to go to the hospital. We were hoping you could talk him into complying with medical protocol. We'd really like to keep him overnight for observation."

Ben was sitting on a gurney, his feet dangling over the side. It was pulled onto the sidewalk beside the ambulance, out of the way of the other attendants, who were still hurrying back and forth. He had one of the thin, gray first-aid blankets over his shoulders and a water bottle clutched in one hand. A tube ran from his arm to an IV bag on a stand. His long face was pale, but his expression was his own. The deer-in-the-slime-monster-headlights look was fading.

Holly stopped in front of him, projecting a hearty energy she didn't feel. "Are you giving the nice ambulance boys a hard time?"

Ben looked up at her, his eyes crinkling with a feeble shadow of a smile. "You look like crap. And you smell." He sniffed his sleeve. "So do I."

A flicker of annoyance let Holly know she was alive after all. "Save a guy from a sticky death, and still he criticizes. What happened to the sensitive New Age Ben? His DVD collection sucked, but he had manners."

"Sorry. The blob monster ate him." Ben passed a hand over his face. "Really. Sorry. That was a bad thing to say."

Holly put her hands on her hips. "Yeah, well, maybe I'll cut you some slack, given the near-death and all. Shouldn't you be going to the hospital?"

"I'm not hurt. Just dehydrated. I don't think the whatever-it-was quite got around to dining on me, thank God." He took her hand. "It sounds woefully inadequate to just say thank-you for saving my life—but… thank you, Holly. You saved my life tonight. Another hour and the ending might have been different."

Then he shuddered, sinking into the folds of his blanket. The gesture reminded Holly of a turtle. "I just want to go home, turn on loud music, and sleep with the lights on."

Her legs starting to tremble with fatigue, Holly sat down next to Ben. The thin padding on the gurney was barely enough to conceal the hard metal frame. She clutched Ben's hand. It was cold, the skin paper-dry.

His fingers spasmed, clutching hers painfully hard. "No. On the surface, y'know, everything seems okay. But underneath… it doesn't help me to have to be reasonable. I'm just treading water. I need privacy."

"Treading water has its function. It keeps us afloat until we're ready to swim again. You could compromise. Come home with me, where I can keep an eye on you."

Eyes growing round, he pulled his hand away with a jerk. "Are you kidding? Your house… your house is like that one!"

"It is not!" Holly rounded on him, then caught herself, remembering what Ben had just been through. "My house is nice. Friendly. It doesn't talk, either."

"It's my family's." She softened her voice still further. "Nothing like the Flanders place."

He looked up, his expression shuttered. "My condo is mine, and it's normal, plain old drywall and concrete. I'm really into normal, nonmagical stuff right now, Holly. If it isn't human or human-made, I don't want it near me."

Even without the words, his tone was like a blow against her breastbone. She flinched.

"It was honest." She managed a smile, a touch to his shoulder. "You've had enough of the wild side for one night."

She closed her eyes a moment, but the drug-blurred world shifted sideways. "I wish you would go to the hospital. Just for tonight, to make sure everything's okay."

"What's the big deal? Without medical observation, I'll turn into a slime monster?"

"Don't worry; it doesn't work that way," Holly said quickly, trying to reassure him.

"Oh, God!" Ben raised his hands, shaking his head. "You would know that, wouldn't you?"

Yeah, because I'm one of the spooky people. All through their relationship, her magic had been a delicate subject—sensitive enough that she'd kept most of her witch's tools out of sight. She'd meant to put them out again one by one, to introduce him to them gradually. She wanted Ben to accept that part of her, but somehow she'd never brought out that first goddess figurine.

I'm being a coward. They'd have to confront the whole witch issue soon, but this wasn't the time. Not tonight, anyway.

"Do you want me to stay with you at your place?" she offered, officially giving up on the hospital plan.

"No." He huddled yet further into his blanket. "Like I said, I need to be by myself."

On some secret, selfish level, Holly was relieved to be spared his mood. "Then take care." She kissed his cheek, a quick peck of retreat. "Call me when you get home. Only if you want to. I'll check up on you later."

Holly slid off the gurney, pausing a moment to find her fatigue-impaired balance, and walked away.

Ben wanted solitude. The only thing she could do was give it to him, but leaving him felt wrong. Everything was off-kilter. Their moment of reunion had gone flat, like biting into a sweet roll to find raw dough in the middle. Crap.

The analogy reminded her that dinner had been a long time ago. She drifted down the sidewalk, feeling hungry and emotionally hollow. The crowd around the house seemed to have taken on a new energy, but she was beyond caring what that was all about.

She noticed that Alessandro's car was gone. It had been there before she went to see Ben, so Alessandro must have left some time since. He could have touched base. His omission made her grumpy. After all, checking up on Ben and Alessandro were two of the reasons she was still there. She might as well not have bothered sticking around.

It was time to finish up and go home. She found Raglan and got the rest of her money. Part of her felt bad taking it. Logic said she'd earned her fee twice over, but her guilt-o-meter shrieked that she hadn't been able to save half the victims or Raglan's investment in the house.

As she left Raglan he was on his cell, carrying on a vitriolic argument with his insurance agent. From the sound of things, they'd be at it until his battery went dead. She hurried away, his angry, panic-ridden invective clawing at her nerves. The words weren't aimed at Holly, but her sense of failure grabbed them and stabbed at her heart nonetheless. Gulping the cold, damp air, Holly walked a little way to clear her brittle mood.

Then she saw Alessandro leaning against the side of the neighboring house, all but invisible in the shadows. He lifted a hand in silent greeting, the faint haze of the streetlights catching the pale fall of his long, curling hair and giving him an improbable halo.

The sight of him turned the tide on her ebbing energy. As she joined him, he straightened from his slouch against the stucco.

"What are you doing over here?" Holly asked. "I thought you'd left. Where's your car?"

"I moved it," he said. "I'm parked around the corner. I really need to go, but I wanted to make sure you were all right." He stepped toward her, his face intent.

It was the first kind thing anyone had said to her through the whole horrible aftermath of the house. Perversely, it made her want to cry.

There was something old-fashioned in the gesture, familiar and courtly at the same time. Her stomach squeezed, warm with a fleeting, half-conscious memory of him picking her up and cradling her body against his chest. Taking her to the ambulance himself.

The feel of his hands on her face was comforting. Vampire skin was soft as silk, cool as satin, and Alessandro had a sensitive, skilled touch. She wanted his hands all over her, wherever there was skin to be caressed, because a little contact wasn't enough. That was the delight and the danger of his species. They always left their victims wanting that tiny bit more.

"Anytime." Unexpectedly he bent, kissing her forehead, his lips cool and smooth. It was chaste. Brotherly. She pulled back, the innocent brush of lips burning her as surely as smoldering desire.

Feeling her start, Alessandro released her, eyes lowered. He recovered, giving her a bland smile. "Blessings on you, Holly. You should go, too. Go home and get some rest. Is there anyone staying with you tonight? Ben, maybe?"

Holly squeezed her eyes shut a moment, really not wanting to think about Ben. "No. I'm alone tonight. I'll be all right," she replied, doing her best to sound casual.

"Then go straight home. Be careful. Don't let anyone in. You've heard about the campus murders?"

This was all wrong. Ben had pushed her away, and now Alessandro was telling her to go, and she was cold and exhausted and she didn't want to dwell on death. On top of that, going home sounded incredibly lonely.

At least Alessandro recognized her need for comfort, and that was the best she was getting from anyone tonight. She stepped into his arms again, pressing against the strong wall of his chest. She meant the hug to be sisterly, as he had been brotherly, but heard the soft, surprised intake of his breath.

"Just hold me a moment," she said plaintively. "Just a moment, and then I'll go home."

His fingers curled into her hair, cupping her head as if he held something fragile and rare. "Holly, are you sure you're all right? Can I take you home?"

She didn't answer. The night had left her a raw wound. It was only now, when someone offered sympathy, that she fully allowed the pain.

His hand stroked down the back of her head and neck, traveling strong and gentle over her shoulders. Her clenched muscles trembled, reluctant to release. She'd thought comfort was what she wanted, but now Holly wanted to weep. His kindness was making her hurt worse.

At that moment, reaching for warmth was the only balm for her misery. She tilted her face up and took his hard, full mouth with hers. A quick, tentative pressure. She felt his shiver, the sudden erratic beating of his heart. The vibration resonated through her flesh, heating things deep inside her body. His mouth was surprisingly warm, almost human-hot. They paused for a moment, their faces close together.

Holly's blood raced to the pull of his maleness. It drew her like a physical force, as if she could crawl inside his lethal strength and wrap it around her for comfort. A sweet tension began to push against her fatigue, a warm, new curiosity.

She leaned in a little farther, taking his lips again. He pulled back, hesitating, but then returned the soft, subtle kiss with something far more demanding—and delicious.

He tasted of licorice—no, it was fennel seed. Vampires sometimes chewed it as an old-fashioned breath freshener. The cool, sharp flavor made her tongue tingle, and she licked her own lips to get more of the sweetness. She slipped her arms around Alessandro's neck, her hands tangling in the wealth of his hair. He smelled of leather and tobacco and some other unique scent she could not place—the smell of him, of what he was. Holly drowned in it.

His hands held her, strong and steady. She kissed him more deeply, tongue glancing off the long, sharp edges of his corner teeth. Her lips quivered at the sensation, and she explored with the fascination of a primitive first seeing fire.

Alessandro's hands were cupping her face, the strong length of his torso tight against her. She could feel the subtle motion of his whole being with each movement of his tongue and lips, his entire body dancing against her as he kissed.

Alessandro slid one hand up her ribs, over her breast, until he found the tab of her jacket zipper. He pulled it down slowly, the grate of metal on metal resonating with an explosive, erotic weight. About halfway down he paused, pulling his hand back as if it had acted without his permission.

He shouldn't have stopped. Holly leaned into him, her breasts aching. He touched her collarbone, the back of his fingers stroking the column of her neck.

Holly's heart thundered, heat roiling in her body. Slowly she drew away, a tremor of yearning down low in her stomach. She wanted this angel of death as she had wanted nothing before. She had totally forgotten all her caution, all the reasons she had to draw a line between them.

Holly panted in lungfuls of the cold Pacific air, feeling the wind on her hot cheeks. I can't have him.

That kiss had gone far beyond anything she'd planned. She hadn't expected him to respond with such fervor, but there was more than blood-hunger in his eyes. There was all the confused heat and hope of any lover. Who knew?

He pushed the hair from her face. "As much as I want this, Holly, I'm not safe. And you have a good life. You don't need me. Not like this."

"I…" She trailed off, not sure what to say to the resignation in his voice. It made her angry and pained all at once. She put her hand on his arm, meaning to comfort. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be." He was suddenly restless, shifting from one foot to the other. She looked over her shoulder to see what was the matter, but there was nothing that hadn't been there before. Whatever was making him edgy was coming from inside his head. Doubt? Regret? Embarrassment?

How like a man to get close and then bolt. Apparently basic gender behavior didn't change with immortality. Now, there's a two-edged sword.

Something like panic crossed his face, followed by sharp longing. "I know I offered, but get one of the police to take you. That would be much better."

"I have to get out of here. I… I'm a vampire, Holly. You shouldn't be catching rides with me. Not after… I'll see you later."

The soft leather of his sleeve slipped from under Holly's hand. Her fingers tightened in reflex, but could not hold him as he stepped away, melting into the shadows. Alessandro looked back, a quick glance over his shoulder. His eyes caught the errant light in a flash of amber, but his expression was unreadable.

It was way past time for the abysmal evening to wrap up. Holly headed toward the house, planning to double-check with the policeman—what was his name… Macmillan?—that she had the all-clear to leave. Floodlights lit up the front porch, making it look even eerier. Yellow tape cordoned off the walkway to the porch. As she approached, three gurneys came down the steps, one after another, sheets drawn over the faces of the victims.

Tears started in Holly's eyes. She'd heard the other professor had been Bill Gamble. He hadn't made it. He was one of Ben's best friends and a really nice guy. Six had gone in. She'd saved only three. Remorse shuddered through her.

Police were everywhere, and they looked anticipatory. Odd. It wasn't as if there were anything to arrest. Now that the ooze was gone, there wasn't even that much to see.

He turned and stopped as she spoke, his expression guarded. "It's a crime scene."

Macmillan studied her, clearly making up his mind how much to say. "You're going to need to answer some questions."

His gaze didn't waver, but kept watching, recording her every twitch. "They found another body. She didn't die like the others."

Holly grabbed the sleeve of Macmillan's coat. "How come I didn't see her? Where was she?"

He took a step back, giving her his X-ray look again. "Where's your friend? Alessandro Caravelli? I'll need to speak with him."

"He's gone." Holly felt her stomach plummet to her feet. Alessandro had made an oblique reference to the campus murders. Told her to go home and lock the doors. He knew about the fourth body!

Not only did he fail to mention a body, Alessandro had skipped the scene, leaving her to explain his absence to the police. She could kick his butt.

Holly folded her arms, struggling to look Macmillan in the face. "The law doesn't afford the supernatural community the same rights as it does humans. The trials are a joke. Even if I did know where he went, why should I turn him over to you?"

He looked disgusted. "Legal obligation aside, because this latest victim was killed by a vampire."

His eyes widened, a hint of temper. "Loyalty is great, but how much do you really know about your fanged sidekick? Where—who—does he eat? Where does he go on a night-to-night basis? Who are his other friends? Just because he seems like a stand-up kinda vampire, that doesn't make him safe. Or innocent."

Macmillan stepped closer, his hands on his hips, tie dangling inches away from her chest. The posture lifted the edges of his coat, and Holly could see the straps of his holster. It held the latest police sidearm—some new weapon that shot silver-alloy ammunition with enough power to stop a werewolf in midrampage. Sadly, the new models jammed a lot. Most cops still carried a second, garden-variety gun.

The night was cold enough that she could feel the faint envelope of heat radiating from Macmillan's body. His jaw bunched with temper. "Now—why did Caravelli leave the scene of a vampire murder?"

The happy drugs left Holly's blood on a tide of adrenaline. Alessandro wasn't safe. He'd said so himself. Oh, crap.

No. She refused to believe the worst of him. "He's a good guy. He pulled me out of that house of horrors tonight."

Holly barely stopped an eye roll. This was ridiculous. "You should try some basic detective work."

"It's public record that Alessandro owns a collections agency. Check the yellow pages for an address. Vampires don't live in the sewers these days. They're employed. They have phones."

Macmillan's mouth thinned. Holly braced herself for a snarling comeback, but a uniformed officer waved for Macmillan's attention. The detective shot her a hard glance. "Wait here. I'll be back. We're not done."

He started toward the gaggle of police milling on the porch. Holly folded her arms across her dread-sore stomach. Macmillan had gone straight to the truth: Outside of their working relationship, she knew almost nothing of Alessandro's life.

Chapter 6

Alessandro turned into the garage at the rear of his downtown apartment, wipers gracefully arcing across the T-Bird's windshield. He had escaped for now, but unless the cops were idiots, they'd put it together that he had been alone in the building with a dead girl. Tedious questions would follow.

In his experience, cops were like cats: The more you tried to avoid them, the more they wanted to get to know you. Unless Alessandro wanted to dump his current life and run—which was not so easy to do these days—he would have to act quickly. The sooner he could point the police in the direction of the real killer, the sooner they would leave him alone.

He parked the car but sat a moment, unmoving. Holly's scent lingered on his clothes, an intimate ghost of her hair, her skin, her life. The fleeting echo of her presence cut through the maelstrom of his thoughts, and he closed his eyes, dwelling in that instant when she had pressed herself to his lips.

Scent was the one way, the only way he could drink her in and still leave her unharmed. It was barely enough to keep a dream from starving, and yet it was all he could safely enjoy. Memory was sweeter, but more dangerous. Memory made him want more.

Details of the evening played over and over in Alessandro's mind: the curve of her knees, the brisk gestures of her hands. The images fanned the embers of smothered lust. As his blood heated, a savage pang of hunger rent him, twisting his gut and filling his mouth with saliva.

He drained the blood of those he caressed, destroying what he craved. Eroticism and appetite were inexorably linked, like thunder and lightning. Any dream of love was mere delusion. All a vampire had was hunger.

At that Alessandro's yearning fell to ash, leaving him empty. He got out of the car as if there were barely enough spirit left to propel his limbs, but the weather snapped him out of his reverie. The half dozen yards to his apartment block were a gauntlet of pelting rain. He took them at a run.

Once a Victorian-era warehouse, the building had been converted to a modern art gallery and a handful of suites. Alessandro entered at a rear door that led straight into his neglected kitchen.

Halfway over the threshold he stopped, suddenly alert. Nothing was out of place. The door had been locked. The security system was disarmed, but then he rarely set it.

Rain pattered on the pavement behind him, gurgling down the drainpipes and over the lid of a Dumpster. He could smell the ocean in the heavy, moist breeze, as well as a whiff of restaurants and car exhaust.

That was all distraction. What had caught his attention was a subtle note behind the rest of the sensory noise.

Alessandro pulled the door closed, shutting out what little light came from outside. Water dripped in a steady beat from the hem of his coat to the tiles of the entry way. He shed the coat, throwing it over a chair, and glided noiselessly toward his living room. Tension prickled at the back of his neck, spilling down between his shoulders. He wasn't afraid, but he was wary.

What had been faint was growing stronger, unveiling itself. Now power hung in the air like pungent smoke. Pausing once, he drew a long knife from his boot sheath. From the feel of the energy, Alessandro's visitor was another of his kind.

The living room was pitch-black, the bare brick walls absorbing any ambient light. He didn't need much to see, but he needed some. With his left hand he found the light switch and flipped it, keeping his knife at the ready.

There was a flicker of movement behind him, too fast even for his quick reactions. In a blink, feminine arms squeezed him; tiny hands pressed against the muscles of his chest. Recognition came in a jolt, stilling his blade just before he could strike.

He knew the steely strength in those delicate fingers, and a tiny part of him chilled with terror. This was not, however, a crisis that could be solved with a weapon.

"I have missed you, my Alessandro." Her voice was rich and soft, a brush of fur in the dark.

One hand slid down until it rested on the front of his jeans, making it clear what exactly she had missed. The crawling heat of the Desire rose between them, that call of flesh and power between the vampire kind. It was lust, but also recognition. He was hers, his safety guaranteed by her favor.

He felt the press of her cheek against his back. "Have you been lonely without me?" she asked.

I have been at peace without you, he thought, schooling his face as he turned in her arms. "My queen," he said, sheathing the knife and falling to one knee.

Omara was tiny, dressed in a shift of azure silk, one long black braid over her shoulder. Her eyes reminded Alessandro of dark honey, her skin of pale cinnamon. Ancient beyond memory, she looked no more than one and twenty.

A creature of unfathomable power, she was alone, and in his house. This cannot be good, he thought. Random anxieties crowded his mind. He was overdue in sending a report. He had no one to offer as food. He hadn't vacuumed for a week. Then there were the campus murders. Surely she

could not already know one of us is responsible? Why is she here? Why is she here alone?

The answer came at once as the Desire flared. She bent down and kissed his mouth, caressing with her tongue. Alessandro could taste her power, hot and pungent, as she explored him, licking, pricking her lip on his sharp teeth. Blood blossomed, richer and sweeter than any other. The ichor of a queen.

The twin goads of hunger and lust rose again, drawing him from his knees to his feet. She was his ruler; he was aching to serve her in all things. He knew how to make her forget her royal dignity. Perhaps she could make him forget how badly he wanted Holly.

With a rough shove Omara pushed him back, her eyes amused. "How eager you are." She ran one finger over his lips, wiping away the last of her blood. "And how pleasant that you are entirely mine to enjoy. No clan. No sire still among us. Such exclusive loyalty is surprisingly hard to come by."

Alessandro lowered his eyes, cursing his body's ready response. He feared her, because she knew his weakness. Every day of his immortal life he suffered on the wheel of solitude. One day he would break.

Abandoning him where he stood, Omara crossed to the couch and sat, tucking her feet beside her. She had shown her power over him. The opening pleasantries were over.

"An interesting place you have chosen for yourself." She looked calmly around the room. "Spare, but choice pieces. A suitably Gothic layer of dust. You need a servant."

She ran a finger over the side table, then inspected it. "Perhaps a French maid?"

Alessandro fought to collect his thoughts. He had been the queen's representative in Fairview for years and her retainer for centuries before that. She had taken him into her household even before she had worn the crown. Long experience had taught him the danger of falling for her games.

But there was tension in her face. What could trouble a creature powerful enough to rule dozens upon dozens of vampire clans? Omara uncurled her legs, sitting up straight. "Please have a seat."

Alessandro sank into an easy chair, looking at his queen across the clutter of library books on his glass coffee table. Resentment roiled inside him, the aftermath of that teasing kiss. "To what do I owe the honor of your visit?" he asked, carefully polite.

She looked down, as if mesmerized by the creases in the leather couch. "My head is filled with problems I cannot solve by fire or sword. I dislike this modern age."

Alessandro took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. The sudden shift in tone was typical of Omara. "Are you disappointed that all the Van Helsings of the world traded in their stakes and holy water for tax audits?"

"Since we came out of the shadows, my role as leader has become more complex. Citizenship. Legal rights. They come at a price. We must obey human rules. If our community makes a mistake, we have so much more to lose."

Alessandro did not reply, keeping his opinions to himself. Most of the supernatural community still existed on the fringe of society, reviled by humans. Laws were fine, but fear and hatred ran deep. Still, he knew Omara would fight like the nightmare she was to further the interests of her people. He would not deny that she was an effective queen.

Omara sighed, as if impatient with his silence. "The human authorities are investigating a string of vampire murders in this area. You know about this?"

"The police contacted me. I came here as a diplomat, to lend the vampire community's support to their inquiries."

"But I only just found out the murders involve one of us. How long ago did the humans call you?"

Omara studied one of her bracelets, twisting it around and around her slender wrist. "They called me two days ago as a courtesy. Every member of our local community is under their scrutiny."

She shook the bracelet back into place and gave him her full attention. The weight of her gaze brought heat to the nape of his neck. "I told them at once you were above reproach."

"I work alone, and I don't know when the murders took place. There may be no one who can swear to my innocence."

"If you do not have suitable alibis for the dates and times in question, I will see to it they are found." She gave a conspiratorial smile.

"We may need to work quickly. Tonight I gave the police reason to come knocking on my door." He summarized the night's events.

Omara listened, a small line forming between her brows as the tale ended. "Show me the token you found."

It was in the pocket of the coat he had left in the kitchen. He went and got it.

Omara held the metal disk under the light of the lamp. "It is, as you say, very old." She made a small noise of interest as she turned it over. "Some of these tokens have the image of Eurydice on the reverse. This one does not. That means it dates, oh, from before the Black Death, at least. The metal-smiths included her only after that era."

Alessandro curled his lip. "Is that when those ridiculous fantasies about the Chosen began?"

She looked up and laughed, sudden merriment making her look almost like a living girl. "Ah, if you could only see the derision on your face. The myth of the Chosen sends you to sleep, does it? You do not care how Orpheus risked all to rescue Eurydice from death's embrace?"

Alessandro gave a scornful wave of his fingers. "Fables for fledglings. I am not a romantic."

"Are you sure about that?" Omara smiled, her lips holding a universe of promises. "Come now, the myth of the Chosen is the Grail Quest of our kind."

"Enough. I know the story. True love holds our release from this vale of living death, just as Orpheus reclaimed his wife from Hades."

Omara lifted one perfect shoulder. "Then you miss the point entirely. The vampire Chosen by a living mate can feed on their love, sustained through the lust of the body instead of the lust for blood." Her eyes glinted from under her lashes. "No wonder the legend is so popular. I ask you, what's not to like about that? Except eternal monogamy, of course."

Alessandro caught his breath, snagged despite himself by the promise of the myth. A Chosen could love without destroying. An impossible dream. "Orpheus failed. Eurydice never made it out of Hades."

Omara leaned back against the cushions, clearly enjoying his bleak mood. "A beautiful story, and all you see are the flaws in the metaphor. Orpheus failed because he had insufficient faith. He did not trust the dark gods enough for the magic to work."

"I empathize," Alessandro said dryly. "I have little patience with false hopes and bedtime stories, especially when there are other, more immediate problems to solve—like an unknown vampire leaving his leftovers for the police to find."

"And I would rather talk about anything but this killer and his tokens, but our cold, gray new world will not oblige." Standing, she circled the end of the coffee table and knelt before him. Alessandro started to rise, but she caught his hands, keeping him still.

"I did not tell the human police that I know the source of these troubles," she said.

She squeezed his fingers, reassuring. Once he relaxed, she rested her hands on his knees, the gesture both pleading and inviting. "I need your sword, my champion."

"Of course." His voice was suddenly rough from the weight of her touch. What do you really want of me?

She slid her hands up his thighs, her fingers caressing the worn denim. "I took you in when your clan perished. I gave you my protection when others would have made you their slave."

Her hands slid to his hips, and she leaned forward, her small, perfect body between his knees. His skin craved her, burned for relief from his endless solitude. She could see it in his face; he could tell. Her eyes searched his, seeking and finding his loneliness.

In a single gesture Alessandro pushed his chair back and stood, putting space between himself and Omara. She looked up at him, amused speculation in her eyes.

"So obedient," she said, her voice dropping to a husky whisper. She leaned back on the floor, reclining on one hip, exotic as an odalisque from some eastern realm.

"Or perhaps you merely want to know the worst. Find out what I want of you. You want to end this moment of suspense."

Alessandro stubbornly held her gaze. He Desired her. He dreaded whatever task she meant to set him, but he would obey because she was his queen. By vampire law, Omara held the slender threads of his existence. He would have given anything to bestow that power on a different, gentler woman.

He bowed his head. "What is it you wish, my queen?" he asked, hiding his resignation.

"The first thing I wish is to be taken care of," she said, rising from her knees with liquid grace. She put her hand on his chest. The light touch of her tapered fingers made his skin tingle with anticipation. "Take me somewhere. I have traveled all day, and I want sustenance. I want to walk into the darkest, deadliest places on your arm. We are the royalty of this little city, and I want my homage. Then, when I am rested, we shall talk of murders and enemies."

Chapter 7

Venue decisions were easy. There were only a handful of places in Fairview fit to entertain a vampire queen, so Alessandro chose the most elegant and discreet, a place named Sinsation.

"Quaint," said Omara, looking though the rafters of the ceiling to the empty loft above.

It was an old building, the interior gutted and left with wood and brick exposed, but the bar was made of granite, glass, and chrome. The light fixtures were something from a futurist's brain fever.

Sinsation was pretentious and expensive, but Alessandro liked the fact that one could carry on a conversation without screaming. A good feature, since he wanted answers. On the way there, Omara had given no hint about exactly what she wanted him to do.

Out of habit, Alessandro scanned the room. The bar was to his left, dwarfed by the shadows of the high ceiling. Toward the back a small, raised stage sat empty, only a man-sized candelabra filling the space with twin branches of flickering light. In front of it, each of the round tables was occupied by two or three patrons, a mix of vampires and humans.

The soft electronic music sounded like New Age gone to the dark side. It was easy to hear, because the murmur of voices stopped. All eyes, supernatural and human, turned to him and Omara with surprise and a hint of fear.

"Do they always stare this way?" Omara asked Alessandro in an amused whisper. She had her arm slipped through his, her face upturned to give him a sharp-toothed smile.

As if of a single mind, the vampires rose and then fell to one knee in obeisance, the humans awkwardly following their lead. Alessandro studied each face. One set of eyes lifted and glittered unpleasantly, but looked away when Alessandro met that angry glare with one of his own.

Pierce, Alessandro thought with a flare of annoyance, and then turned deliberately away. The male was as irritating and unwholesome as chewing gum stuck to one's shoe.

Omara nodded to the crowd, bestowing a smile that was somehow both gracious and dismissive. "Greetings, my friends. Please carry on as you were. Enjoy the night."

There was a rustle as patrons resumed their seats. Then a hushed babble of conversation rose, urgent and filled with repressed exclamations. A hostess arrived and quickly cleared the best table. Alessandro and the queen waited politely while she worked.

Omara's hand tightened on his biceps. "John Pierce looks like he wishes to snap your neck."

Alessandro gave a slow smile. "Let him do his worst. I will put him in his place."

"Does he wish to replace you as my representative here?" The question was taunting. "Or perhaps take over your role as my battle champion?"

"He is nothing but a playboy and a dabbler in spells. More to the point, last year I was obliged to behead his brother."

The table was ready. Alessandro held the chair for Omara while she sat, an old habit that still lingered. A waitress appeared, clad in black slacks and crisp white blouse that showed soft, warm skin. Omara ordered a complicated martini. He ordered a dark Hungarian red wine, the thick vintage nicknamed Bull's Blood. His usual. The drinks were more props than sustenance, but it was a pleasant ritual. As the waitress left, Alessandro wondered how she might be described on a menu. A young vintage, but with a delicate bouquet?

Omara folded her hands on the glass surface of the table. Her rings sparkled in the dim light, shimmering with every movement of her fine-boned hands.

"To return to the murders, and what I wish you to do…" Omara said without preamble.

She ducked her head, licking her lips. It was a rare show of nerves. "I believe one of my old enemies has returned. I was not surprised when the Fairview police contacted me."

"My home in Seattle was ransacked. Nothing was taken: not my money nor my business records. Not even my jewelry."

"Your books and implements of magic?" Alessandro asked anxiously. Omara possessed powerful, dangerous rarities any sorcerer would covet for his collection.

Her eyes went wide for a moment, perhaps envisioning that disaster. "No, those are safe."

"No demands were made." Omara looked away. "It was odd, disturbing. Then the Fairview police called, wanting my advice, so I came. Perhaps the incidents were unrelated, but I doubt it. I believe the break-in was to put me on notice. Someone desires a fight. They have picked Fairview as their battleground."

"But why Fairview? Since I've been here it's been a quiet city, at least until these murders."

"That's because you, my champion, are here. I haven't needed to worry about this part of my domain. You keep the law here with a strong and just hand. If something went amiss, you are my natural successor."

Alessandro allowed himself a small, sardonic smile. "You know I have no ambition to be king, and I have never learned the sorcery necessary to hold the throne."

"If you choose, you could learn. You have more than enough ability and natural power."

Alessandro wasn't sure if this was the truth or an attempt to secure his interest. It didn't matter. "If our enemies bring us together in Fairview, they face a double threat."

Omara shook her head. "Still, it puts us both within one killing stroke. There is danger as well as advantage to you and I being in the same city."

"If the token you found is a clue, a very old, very powerful enemy. Someone willing to kill to put us in jeopardy with the human police."

Alessandro tried to swallow, but his throat was suddenly devoid of moisture. "You told me once that you foresaw trouble in this place. I began to doubt anything would ever happen here, but you were right."

He frowned. "There may be more than meets the eye to this adversary. In the last few weeks a magic user has been using summoning spells."

Perhaps his client hadn't been the target of the spell caster's art, but collateral damage. Such things happened. "And the latest victim was concealed with a look-away spell. Who could work that kind of magic? You say you know the source of this trouble. Who could it be?"

"It must be an old enemy. But which? I could fill a telephone book." Omara raised her eyes to the ceiling, as if to see the names written there. "To begin with, there is every other king or queen who might want my territory, and every other clan leader who covets a crown. The leaders of most other species. Then there are those special few: Morlok. Aloysius. Geneva. Michael. Gervaise. Callandra."

Alessandro paused. He didn't like the look in Omara's eyes, but he couldn't tell what she was thinking.

She smiled. "Indeed, there was the token. You're right. We must look to our own kind."

The drinks came. Omara brought the bright blue martini to her lips, tasting it with just a dart of her pink tongue. "You'll need the help of that witch friend of yours. The Carver girl. Pretty thing, I'm told."

Alessandro started at her words, his wine sloshing to the lip of the glass. "You know of her?" Pretty thing. Yes, all long, walnut-dark hair and emerald eyes. Omara didn't like rivals.

"Of course. She's a Carver witch in my own territory. Rumor has it she can squash a poltergeist in five minutes flat." The queen's eyes asked for confirmation.

"That's true. And she defeated a rogue house tonight. An exceptionally bad one."

"You'll need her magic," Omara said softly. "Get her to raise one of the murdered girls. A little necromancy will go a long way toward identifying my rival. The dead could at least describe the attacker."

Alessandro pushed the wine away, recoiling from the memory of Holly writhing on the floor in pain. Necromancy demanded a huge amount of magic and would be even more excruciating for her. "Is there no one else we can bring in to help? I'm not sure she can do this."

"Of course she can. She's a Carver witch. Their specialty for generations has been calling the dead."

"I think she might. And still you hesitate. What is a witch's death compared to the defeat of my adversary?" A look passed over Omara's face that he had never seen before: a flicker of… terror? "I led the vampires out of the darkness and into this century. I am the one who talks to judges and politicians, lobbying for our rights. I deserve to survive."

He started to interrupt, but her icy gaze froze his words. "If this murderer keeps killing, the terrified citizens of Fairview will turn on the entire supernatural community. They could massacre us without a flicker of remorse. Think of that when you start to feel heroic and protective of some girl with the significance of a gnat."

She leaned across the table, putting her face close to his. They must have looked like a courting couple working up to a kiss. He could feel the slow exhalation of her breath. "Don't disobey me, Alessandro. I don't want to lose you. You're my champion, my questing knight. Harden your heart for my sake. Love me, Alessandro."

Without Omara, there was no one, no clan, no kin. Without his queen he was utterly without a foothold among his kind. Eternity was a long time to be alone.

She wrapped her hand around his, squeezing hard. "A rogue vampire—or demon—will feed and feed until all around him are destroyed. I must know who is doing this."

"Of course," he said, but his mind was fumbling for alternatives. I will find another way to solve this. What she asks is unthinkable. Even if he never touched Holly, never tasted her, she was his partner—she didn't belong to anyone else, not even his queen. Alessandro protected what was his.

Omara took another sip of her drink, a faint tremor in her fingers. "I know you will do the right thing. You always do. It's part of your old-world charm."

He bit his tongue, but any unwise statements were preempted by someone approaching the table. Pierce.

"A moment, my queen." Pierce bowed low, his waving blond hair burnished by the candlelight. He still had the grace of an Elizabethan courtier, but a feral streak hid behind those fine manners.

"How may I help you?" Omara asked formally, but there was eager heat in her glance. Suspicion flittered through Alessandro's thoughts. Did they know each other better than either of them let on?

Pierce straightened, a smile lighting his even features. Wearing an open-necked shirt and gray wool jacket, he gave off an air of monied ease. "I come on behalf of Clan Albion to beg the favor of offering refreshment."

Pierce held up his right hand with a graceful flourish, and a human stepped forward from the shadows. The moment was dramatic, just the sort of show Omara liked. The human was also very much to her taste, on the brink of full manhood, a light blue sweater straining across the muscles of his chest.

"It pleases me that you remember the service owed to your queen." Though her words were for Pierce, her eyes were on Alessandro. "My favor shall always go to those who serve me best."

Alessandro returned a false smile, mentally peeling the skin from Pierce's flesh.

Turning to the young human, Omara gestured for him to kneel. She stroked his cheek, caressing the straight fall of his chestnut hair, and then took his right arm, pushing the sleeve up the sweater up past his elbow. The forearm was thick with muscle, but still had the soft skin of youth. The human's face was joyous, his soft lips parted.

"He is untouched and willing, my queen," said Pierce, as if the human had no voice of his own.

Omara braced the youth's arm on the edge of the table and touched the crook of the inner elbow, looking for veins. She bent her head and bit, her venom sending the young man into shudders of ecstasy. Alessandro knew Omara would not kill the human, she would not mark him as a servant, but she would ruin his appetite for anything an ordinary woman could do. Even a casual bite could shatter a life if the human fell prey to the addictive high.

That brought back the conversation about the token. According to the legend of the Chosen, only a human untouched by a vampire's bite could Choose a mate. The act took free will untouched by the power of the vampire's venom. He watched Omara feeding. The legend was nonsense. Only an addict could love a creature like that. Like him.

Scenting the blood, Alessandro felt his own appetite stir. His skin flushed hot, his groin tightening. The sucking, lapping sounds of the meal made his palms slick with sweat. He rose, making a polite bow Omara did not see.

"Excuse me," he murmured to no one in particular, and headed toward the back of the lounge.

Beside the washrooms there was a back door that led to a dead-end alley. The storm drain was plugged with weeds, leaving a trough of water down the center of the narrow space. Alessandro stood against the wall, breathing in cold, clean air. For all he owed Omara, for all he needed from her, he was glad to escape for even a minute.

To human eyes the alley would be pitch-black, clouds blotting out the moon and stars. He could see a rat scuttling along as if fleeing for its life, burrowing into a crevice in the bricks across the way.

Alessandro frowned. The reasons to solve the vampire murders were mounting. The case threatened his freedom, Omara's safety, and now, indirectly, Holly's—not to mention the lives of the human victims. Yet for all Omara claimed to know it was an old enemy at work, Alessandro felt he still had no solid information. The queen's adversaries were too many to count.

He sniffed the air. Odd. There was something building, a pressure that throbbed in his sinuses. There was a faint sound like tearing cloth. Alessandro wheeled toward it.

The wall at the end of the alley, just before it reached the street, was bathed in a sickly green glow the approximate shade of bile. At first he thought it was a reflection, but the light flared, turning the alleyway a pearly rainbow of pinks and grays that deepened to a bloody orange. The light was coming from inside the old brick wall of the radio station next door.

Alessandro pulled his boot knife and began running toward the light, his heels loud on the pavement. He was in a blind alley, and he didn't want to be trapped with whatever that light portended—but he had to know what it was. Now there was a heavy smell of magic in the air, a pungent, charred stink like burning toast.

The bricks of the wall shimmered, putting off a fierce heat. Once, Alessandro had watched a movie screen when film caught and burned in the projector. There was a similar hole melting the wall. Irregular edges flared orange, light pouring from the hole's center. It was small, but appeared to grow with each moment that passed, filling the air with a faint ripping sound. Powdery ash dropped, vanishing before it reached the ground.

He passed the hole, stopping only when he had nearly reached the safety of the street. By then he had figured out what he was seeing: This was a portal; the barrier between the demon realm and earth was burning away.

Shock ran through him, a dismay so sharp he had to fight nausea. A portal meant someone—no doubt his rogue spell-caster and Omara's murderous vampire enemy—was summoning a demon. This was far worse than they'd thought.

The demon had not yet passed through, but it was trying to make a door. The hole had grown to the size of a dinner plate. Alessandro clenched his fists, offended. This is not your town, he thought, glaring at the hole in the wall. Frustration leaped through his body. He was no sorcerer. He had no power over this kind of magic. Who is close enough to help?

A desperate cry came from the street behind him. He turned to see a cluster of figures pounding through a parking lot a block away. The figure in front was moving fast, but the two creatures pursuing it were gaining ground.

He stared, for a moment feeling nothing but cold refusal to believe. Then horror surged through his flesh, like blood tingling into a sleeping limb.

Bald, hunched, the two in the rear chased their prey with a peculiar, rolling lope. Changelings. Squat, gray, misshapen abominations, they were the bastard children of the Undead realm, made from a line that had never Turned properly. They were vampires, and yet they were not. Abhorrent and insane, they were shunned by even the lowest of the vampire clans.

But that had been the odd smell clinging to the body of the girl he had found. Vampire, but not. Drinking blood, but unable to bite without mangling the victim.

Then he felt his stomach turn cold all over again. He knew the prey. It was Macmillan, one of the detectives from the Flanders house. Ironically, Alessandro had tried to avoid the cops. Now here was one running virtually into his arms. And he's not going to make it.

Alessandro sprinted across the street at an angle that brought him to a point ahead of the running figures. Gripping his knife, he faded into the shadows, willing himself to be one with the darkness. A moment lapsed, thick with anticipation.

Macmillan was track-star fast, but losing ground. Alessandro let him pass, timing his own attack with a predator's instincts. As soon as the man was two steps away, Alessandro lashed a kick at the first of the changelings, sending him flying into the side of a passing Toyota. The metal dented with a resounding thud. The vehicle's owner jumped out with a yell, but Alessandro was already running after the detective and the second pursuer.

The other changeling was easy to catch, but harder to hold. Claws slashed at Alessandro's eyes, forcing him to duck. The movement loosened his grip on the creature's arm. It seized the advantage, landing a hard blow to Alessandro's shoulder. Alessandro got a glimpse of its face, the maw of needle teeth where a nose and mouth should have been.

Macmillan had stopped and turned. As Alessandro drove his elbow into the changeling's chin, the detective pulled his weapon and fired. The silver grips on the sidearm meant it had silver bullets—the standard ammo for stopping a vampire.

The changeling kept coming with the determination of a nightmare, bits of blood and flesh spattering the street. The cop was a good shot, but not fast enough to keep up with the changeling's supernatural speed. He fired again and again, but none of the rounds penetrated the heart or head.

Alessandro feinted with his knife, drawing the changeling's attention away from the detective. The creature turned, slowed only a little by its gaping wounds. Alessandro circled, looking for a weakness in its guard. He gave an experimental lunge; the creature parried with its claws. Alessandro circled again, testing while Macmillan took cover behind a mailbox and drew his regular weapon—the one meant for mere humans.

The changeling edged sideways toward the mailbox, its limbs hunched like a squat spider, its maw gaping wet and red. Then it leaped, using all its limbs to spring. Macmillan emptied his second weapon, the sheer force of the assault knocking the creature sideways. It fell to earth, but got up and lunged again, jaws extended.

The detective vaulted backward, barely avoiding the changeling's grasp. Alessandro tackled it from behind.

Macmillan had no choice. He bolted, disappearing into the shadowy parking lot between his would-be killer and the bright lights of the nearby movie theaters.

Deprived of its prey, the changeling twisted free, howling in frustration. Wounded in half a dozen places, it still had the strength to bound forward in yet another attack. Only Undead reflexes kept Alessandro from its fangs. He swept the knife up, slicing the changeling in midflight. The creature fell to the asphalt, curling in on itself, limbs tucked protectively around its wound.

Alessandro looked down at the misshapen thing. The pink light of a neon sign flickered over its gray skin, picking out the ragged claws where its hands and feet should have been. It gave an eerie, mewling cry of rage. Like all vampires it had once been human, but changelings were different. None of their human personality survived the Turning.

Alessandro was quick, and the knife was sharp. As soon as the spine was severed, the body began to melt into a reeking sludge. He bent to clean his knife on a scraggly patch of grass next to the sidewalk.

Alessandro hadn't seen changelings in at least several centuries. Some claimed they had been hunted to extinction after their last bid to challenge the vampire clans. Apparently not, he thought as he ran back to where he had kicked the other changeling into the car. The Toyota, he noted, had left the scene. Just as well.

The first changeling was a puddle of slime. Its neck must have snapped on impact. Alessandro felt a shiver work its way down his spine. Changelings didn't even go to their final death properly. True vampires turned to dust.

He had reached a point across the street from the alley, but stopped in his tracks as soon as he could see the portal. Creatures were worming through the rip between dimensions, emerging from the wall to drop with a splash to the puddles of the alley. They looked like huge dogs, red-eyed and coal black. Their forms seemed indistinct, like beasts made of nightmares.

It was one thing to fight a pair of changelings, another to take on a pack of half demons. He stayed utterly still, melting into the shadows. He dared not even take out his cell phone to call for help. Their hearing was even better than a vampire's.

A change in the light caught Alessandro's attention. The brightness was receding, as if something were reeling it back into the portal. Faster than it had burned open, the portal was closing, the edges shimmering and healing. One last hellhound was squeezing through, shaggy black legs pumping as it squirmed through the narrowing gap. It dropped to the ground and raced after its fellows. A drool of ectoplasm coursed down the wall, sticky and faintly phosphorescent.

Then the doorway shrank to a pinpoint and disappeared with a faint pop. The air pressure changed, growing suddenly heavy. Perhaps it was just returning to normal.

The hounds faded into the darkness, silent as dreams. Alessandro released his breath. The werewolves could deal with the hounds better than anyone else. He didn't like asking the wolves for help—it never paid to show weakness—but this was a commonsense exception.

Not all hellspawn were so easy to clean up. How many other portals had there been, and what had come through them?

Alessandro walked backward until he leaned on the brick exterior of Sinsation. Too many thoughts crashed through his brain, each one bellowing for attention. He had believed changelings wiped from the earth, but here they were, their scent all over a murdered college student. That raised so many questions. What would they hope to gain by coming to Fairview? What, if any, connection did changelings have to a summoner or his demon? Moreover, what possible connection did they have to Omara?

A rogue vampire would have been a dangerous but far less complex scenario. All these circumstances together reeked of magic and obscure motivations, two of his least favorite things.

Police sirens yowled in the distance. The detective had raised the alarm. Alessandro needed to take the queen and leave.

Chapter 8

How could anyone compare my home with the Flanders place? Holly stood at the front gate, trying to see her house with unbiased eyes. That was hard. She loved it with all her heart.

It was what architecture buffs called a "painted lady." Three stories of gingerbread carving gestured skyward, resplendent in lemon yellow and aubergine. Built in the 1880s, it stood at the crest of a steep rise, looking over a sweep of ocean to the south. Seven generations of Carvers had lived there.

So what if Ben wasn't a Gothic mansion kinda guy? He'd come around. He had to. Their relationship had grown slowly, but their bond was solid. In the last few months things had begun to grow serious. They'd begun leaving spare clothes and other odds and ends at each other's homes. Swapped keys. They'd even begun talking about moving in together.

And I have to forget that I ever kissed Alessandro. It had been a moment of crisis, but that kiss had still been a mere whisker away from cheating. She couldn't bring herself to regret the moment, but it would never happen again.

Holly pushed open the wrought-iron gate and started up the walk, groping for her keys in her pocket. She wasn't moving too quickly after her adventures the night before. She'd slept until eleven and rose bruised and headachy. Brunch had been soda crackers and tap water. Now it was nearly dinner time and she was just starting to feel like herself.

Holly's cat, the Kibble-ator, sat on the porch like a fuzzy, twenty-pound doorstop. She'd never intentionally acquired Kibs, but he lived in her home and ate her food anyway. He sniffed at her sneakers, finding all the interesting scents collected during her round of afternoon errands.

"Hey, there," she said, bending down to pet him. He yawned, demonstrating the power of intense fish breath. He pushed his head into her hand and then did a rolling flop, presenting his belly for a scratch. Holly obeyed. With that much cat on her foot, it wasn't easy to move.

Eventually Holly straightened and checked the mailbox. Nothing. Then, turning her key in the heavy brass lock, she caught her breath as the door swung ajar. Someone had left it unlocked. Unperturbed, the cat thumped past on heavy paws, heading straight for his food bowl.

"Hello?" she called out, envisioning burglars loose in her private spaces, rooting through her underwear drawer. There was no response. "Hello?" she called again, gripping her keys like a weapon. She walked through the front parlor, her whole being straining to catch the slightest sound.

There was a noise in the kitchen, a loud, scrabbling rustle like a giant mouse. Creeping up to the doorway, she stopped and stood with her back to the wall. The rustling stopped. She tried to be silent, undetectable, but the rush of her panting breath roared in her ears. Swallowing nervously, she took one step into the kitchen, her footfall loud on the old gray linoleum. The air was damp, smelling of onions and dish soap. The electric clock that hung over the sink hummed softly. She heard another noise, the metallic clunk of shifting pots and pans. She crept forward, ready to pounce.

A nicely sculpted masculine rump projected from the cupboard beneath the sink. She sighed with relief and exasperation. After last night's experience, he was the last person she expected to find alone in her house.

Predictably he jerked up, whacking his head on the pipes. Swearing, he scrambled backward and turned, his glasses slightly askew.

"I don't have any." The release of tension made her grin wide. Ben was over his fright. Everything was all right. He was not only in her house, but interacting with it as well. A very good sign. It would be so nice if he would just move in.

"I know." He got to his feet, smoothing back his short, thick hair with one hand. "Maybe its self-maintenance schedule fell behind. The sink is plugged. I was going to try a little plain old handyman know-how."

"I got your message about today being the registration deadline," he said. "I wanted to come over and say congratulations in person. So, congrats for taking the plunge. Happy studenthood. Everything go okay?"

"Yeah." Today was the deadline to pay up and make her registration official. Raglan's job had come in the nick of time. "I skipped the bookstore. It was a mob scene."

"Thanks." With a contented smile, Holly pulled off her jacket, hanging it on a hook by the back door. Somewhere behind her, Kibs crunched the cat chow in his bowl. The kitchen seemed peaceful, a refuge, the light falling on the old counters exactly as it had when she was too small to reach the cookie jar.

He shrugged. "A bit. I'm really restless. I can't seem to stay still for two minutes. May as well take advantage of all this unfocused energy, so I washed the dishes while I waited for you."

"Thanks for that," she said. He was a much better housekeeper than she was. "I know it wasn't easy to come here."

Moving close to Ben, she kissed him. His lips were soft, his shirt damp with dishwater. Giving a little grunt of surprise, he returned the kiss with one of his own. His warm tongue touched hers swiftly, the merest teasing brush. He had been eating chocolate.

Holly didn't respond. She was concentrating on the chocolate. There were so many things she deeply appreciated about Ben. He did not brood and did not wear black. He liked golf and key lime pie. He was inventive in bed and happy about it afterward. He liked to think he was complex, but he really wasn't. Ben was cheerfully normal.

"I should attend to your plumbing more often," he said, pushing his hands into her back pockets and snugging her hips up against his.

"Just think if I'd actually found some drain crystals." He grinned. "Then you'd have to reward me for getting the job done."

Holly liked the mental picture of manly wrench action more than chemical warfare, but whatever. "Most people would want a self-fixing house," she teased. "More time to play."

Ben smiled, sort of. It was a rueful expression. "That would be a hotel. I like to handle problems myself. It's a guy thing."

There was nothing to say to that. Guy things were arguments she would lose, because she never quite got the rules. Instead she slipped her hands around his waist and under his sweater, warming them against the heat of his lean back. If he chose guy tactics, she could opt for feminine wiles.

He sucked a quick breath in through his teeth as her fingers skated up his spine. "Ow, you're cold." He broke the embrace.

"Sorry." She crossed her arms, feeling a little lost without his warm body to hold.

"I think you might have to call a real plumber. I'm out of time." He reached for his tweed jacket where it hung over the back of a chair. "I'm tutoring tonight."

The sink suddenly blurped and the water gurgled out. Ben turned and stared, his expression cross. With an abrupt gesture he ran water into the sink, rinsing out the leftover suds and then peering into the cupboard below to frown at the pipes. "Huh," he grunted. "I hate that. That's so creepy. It was completely stuck before."

She shrugged. "The house is like that. Never cleaned the gutters. Never had to unplug the perimeter drains. Never owned a caulking gun. You see, not all these houses are psycho killers."

Ben's face grew serious as he shrugged on his jacket. "I'll see you tomorrow. There're some condos going up by the waterfront we should look at."

His expression went tight. "I… um. I actually came here to show a Realtor around the place this afternoon."

He looked at the floor. "Just to get an idea what this place might sell for. The location is great. It's got a good view. You could do really well."

"She's going to crunch the numbers and fax me a suggested listing price tonight."

He extended his hands in a placating gesture. "I've already put everything that was mine in the truck. That way it's all clean and simple if you don't want to hear this."

Holly's heart squeezed as if it were stopping. Every detail suddenly seemed too sharp. The soap bubbles in the drain. The folds of a dish towel. The scraped skin on Ben's knuckles. The clear, green hazel of his eyes. It was like sliding off a cliff in slow motion.

"I'm not giving up," he said. "But things have to change. I saw what happened last night. I saw the kind of pain you were in. How can I let you do that? You're dear to me. How can I not try to shelter you?"

This was it. The difficult stuff the two of them never talked about. They had reached a crisis point if this was coming out of the box. Holly felt her mouth go dry as ash.

"Ben, I understand your concern, but it's no worse than what a fireman does. Policeman. Soldier. There're risky jobs out there. I just happen to have one of them."

"There aren't too many people with my talents. I like to think I have something to offer."

Holly felt her good judgment waver, like a glass wobbling on the edge of a table. "I saved your life last night, remember? Was that important?"

Ben looked away. He was biting back some barrage of words he knew she wouldn't like.

She felt a lance of anger so sharp it was almost beyond pain. "I respect what I do. It's who I am. It's important to me."

"Then maybe you should support me. Learn some simple spells. There're a few things humans can learn for basic self-protection. Then you might feel better about my world."

"No way. It frightens me," he said quietly. "I didn't think it would, but it does. You can do all this stuff I can't even comprehend."

"Don't joke. Not now." He shoved his hands into his pockets. "You grew up around power. You have so much power. I had no idea you people existed until a few years ago."

You people. How many groups through history had heard that phrase turned against them?

One shoulder hitched up, nearly touching his ear. The gesture was oddly boyish. "This new world is hard to get used to. I'm not comfortable being that close to so much magic."

"I just can't compete. It's like suddenly being demoted down the food chain. I don't even understand why you want to be with someone like me, a plain, ordinary guy with no superpowers. It doesn't make sense." He shuffled his feet. "But if I don't see what you can do, I can forget about it. I can relax. That was working for me, but last night changed everything."

Holly hiccupped, a strangled sob dying in her throat. "Then you just noticed that I'm a witch? If that's the case, it can't be so very shocking."

Ben rallied. "That's just what I mean. We can sort this out with a little effort. I'll give notice at my place. You sell yours."

"Oh, no." Holly dropped her hands so they dangled uselessly at her sides. He wasn't hearing anything she said.

"Listen: We can start over together, be normal people someplace new. Someplace equal and fair. You can go to school. I can teach."

He had the education, the money, and the rich relatives. They were nice, good, generous people, but they had so much. All she had was herself and her magic. They were one and the same. If she gave that up, small-M, big-M, or economy sized, nothing would be hers. Even the pain was precious, because it was her own.

Ben raised a hand, palm out. "No. Don't say anything. Just think about it. I'll call you tomorrow. Maybe we can have breakfast and talk it over."

"Sure," Holly replied, forcing her eyes open wide so she could hide the first threat of tears. "Breakfast would be great."

"Good." Ben kissed her one last time, a peck on the part of her hair. "Your hands are shaking."

Holly opened her mouth, closed it, pressed her fingers together. They were cold, but her cheeks burned red-hot. "Last night was hard on me, too."

"Of course it was." He gave her hand a quick squeeze. He smelled like soap and old wool, scents that reminded her of all the afternoons they had spent lying on the lawns of the campus. I'd bring him lunch. We couldn't wait till the end of the day to see each other.

Holly was panting, short, ineffective breaths. The house felt empty, all the lazy, lawn-sprawling afternoons, past and future, suddenly gone. I saved his life. He saw what I could do. He freaked.

Breakfast would never happen. Breakfast was a metaphor for avoidance. He'd forget to call. Something would come up. Not his fault. Didn't mean to. This was his way of making a graceful retreat.

There was something dead in her chest where her emotions usually lived. In a while the pain would catch up with her.

Holly went upstairs, peeled off her clothes, and ran a hot bath. Her entire future had just been derailed. She deserved some comfort before figuring out her next steps.

Unobtrusive, Kibs followed her upstairs and curled up on the chair by the old claw-foot bathtub, there if she needed company. She added bubble bath to the running water until the foam reached the lip of the tub. Watching the steam condense and trickle down the high, narrow windows beneath the canted ceiling, she soaked.

It would have been pure and absolute bliss if her mind slowed down, but it didn't. One bad thought led to another.

First came the business. What had been a thriving family enterprise had dwindled to just Holly, the last Carver in the biz. Difficult jobs like necromancy made more money, but she was hobbled by pain. As a result, she had to work twice as hard at small, bread-and-butter contracts to make the agency pay. Insurance investigations. Lost pets. Imp exterminations. Over time it was exhausting.

Ravenous

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