My eyes opened to darkness. Like an infallible clock, my internal second hand woke me precisely at twelve minutes past sundown. In our inverted world, this almost physical connection to time was a blessing and a curse—or that’s what Edward once told me. He never liked his world to be too regulated.

Edward.

I lay on his mattress.

He had divided his cellar into four dingy storage rooms, with no soft carpets or velvet furniture, not even linoleum—just aging floorboards. Most of us keep mementos of past time periods, reminding us to flow and change and evolve with each new generation. Edward had never purchased a bed, though, and he had been sleeping on a sheet-less Posturepedic mattress for years. That old folktale about coffins is a lie. I’d get claustrophobic.

Like projections against a blank wall, images from that morning flashed before me: his face, hair, and fingers bursting into flames. Had it hurt? Did death hurt us? I couldn’t mourn him yet, or I’d get lost inside myself, and survival always outranks emotion.

What had happened while I slept?

The police had probably searched the house from floor to ceiling. The tiny space I now occupied was hidden behind an invisible door in the west wall. At least they hadn’t found me.

Listening for a full minute, I heard nothing. I pushed on the sliding panel once to release it.

Empty room.

Odd smell, sweet and musty.

Was it floating down from the mess in his kitchen? God, what had the cops thought of that? Slipping Edward’s address book inside my jacket, I stepped out to find the stench growing stronger, and to see a pile of torn-up floorboards. They’d torn the floor up? Why? Rotting shards of wood and fresh, uneven piles of dirt lay all around me.

Then I noticed a small, gray-white spot in the dirt and leaned down to look closer. It was a bone, part of an index finger.

“No.”

My mind couldn’t accept the implication. We disposed of bodies, dumped off or disguised, as far from ourselves as possible—meaningless dried husks no longer connected to us. Had he been carrying corpses home or luring live victims into his house and draining them here? A madman. Two facts shone brightly through this haze. First, he’d been sliding in and out of reality long before last night, and second . . . this situation was far from over.

How many bodies had they found? The authorities would probably consider Edward a psycho killer who’d finally lost it and committed suicide.

Maybe they were right.

It was all a matter of perspective. But right now, the whole sordid story was being aired on the evening news.

I had to get out of the house.

Apparently, the police had removed the bodies. In fact, they’d gutted the entire basement. I kicked up cold, loose dirt running for the stairs. The upper floor was a shambles, but nothing seemed to have been removed yet. However, I didn’t stop for inventory and moved straight for the front door.

And there, parked right in front of the house, in all its bright red glory, was my main concern. Since I’d been trapped inside all day, my little Mazda had been just sitting there for the police to go over with a fine-tooth comb.

I looked up and down the street. Well . . . other cars were parked nearby, so perhaps they’d run a check on all of them.

In any event, it was likely the authorities had done a search on my license plate by now and located my name and address. Bastards.

Managing to keep the needle under sixty all the way home was difficult, but getting pulled over could have been a tragedy.

William had been home alone all this time. Fear and anger surfaced slowly through my numb layers of skin. The house we lived in was perfect: back in the trees, high fence, deep basement, few neighbors—and private ones at that. Now we were going to have to move. Where? There wouldn’t be time to find us someplace secure or permanent. Whatever I came up with would have to be fast and temporary.

Not bothering to put my car in the garage, I ran up the outdoor steps and through our back door.

“William?”

The interior wasn’t exactly gothic. Our kitchen was actually quite cheery in spite of the fact that we didn’t use it for much, decorated in soft yellow tones. I’d bought the house new back in 1912, but it had undergone several major renovations since then. Keeping up normal appearances was an art that Edward had drilled into my head nearly a hundred and seventy years ago.

A tall, wrinkled old man shuffled in, wearing brown trousers and a faded burgundy smoking jacket. Silver hair hung past his shoulders with tiny dry wisps floating now and then across his narrow face. Veins in his hands, once blue, lay flat and purple beneath flesh so dry it crackled at contact with anything else. Milky white eyes gazed out at me in hurt confusion.

“You weren’t here for dinner last night. Left me hungry,” he said.

“I’m sorry, William. We have to move again. Edward Claymore killed himself this morning, and the police found bodies in his cellar. They’ll be looking for people to question.”

“Have you called Julian?”

Sometimes William surprised me with a flash of memory or clarity of thought.

“No,” I answered. “We have enough money to relocate. I’ll call him once we’re settled.” Explaining all this to Julian was going to be a nightmare. I’d put it off as long as possible.

William’s momentary comprehension faded. His eyebrows knitted slightly. “What about dinner?”

“Of course.” I pulled a kitchen chair out for him. “Just sit down, and we’ll fix you up.”

Rows of rabbit hutches lined the back of our house. A large part of my job was caring for these small creatures that nourished William. He’d always been too weak to absorb human life force.

When I came back in, he was sitting in his chair, waiting. After covering his clothes with a large tablecloth, I held a struggling brown rabbit up to his mouth. He bit down through soft fur and drained the animal until it stopped kicking and fell limp in my hands. He smiled slightly with blood smeared all over his mouth and began pulling at the tablecloth.

“Hang on,” I said. “Let me wipe your face first.”

He was surprisingly careful about his appearance, in spite of the fact that no one ever saw him except me.

Most other vampires are obsessed with beauty and perfection, and so William made them uneasy. Edward couldn’t stand the sight of him and often remarked about what a horrible lot I had. “Julian is a pig, pushing his responsibility off on you,” he used to say. Of course, he never said it to Julian’s face. Edward may have been cynical, but he wasn’t stupid.

My old charge was one of a kind. He couldn’t hunt or protect himself. Edward had been wrong about my lot, though. I loved William’s sweet, wrinkled face and honestly didn’t mind taking care of him. It gave me something to do.

After cleaning him up, I took him into the study and built a fire. Then I brought him some small blocks of wood, a knife, sandpaper, and paint.

“Could you make us a new set of checkers? I’ve got to go out and find us a place to stay for a few days. If you make us a new set, we’ll have something to do when we get there.”

“Will you play with me?” he asked.

“Even let you win.”

He smiled and picked up one of the small wood blocks. We had nineteen sets of checkers and two half-finished sets of chess pieces upstairs, but he loved to work with his hands, and I needed something to keep him busy for a few hours.

Hurrying into the bathroom, I looked in the mirror and grimaced.

My face was smeared with dirt, my clothes smelled like dead cats, and my hair was dotted with dried blood flakes from leaning against Edward’s kitchen wall. Oh, that story about us not being able to see our own reflection is absurd, too. We’re solid. Of course we can see our reflection.

I took a shower, blow-dried my hair, and put on a peach, ankle-length sundress. That’s kind of funny, isn’t it? A sundress?

William was already settled in the study, so I didn’t bother popping back in on him before leaving. Too many intrusions would only confuse him.

I put my car in the garage, as driving it seemed risky. I could just picture some overzealous rookie spotting it and picking me up for questioning. I really don’t like cops. Besides, the walk toward downtown Portland is nice.

Portland was a great place for us. Old, but not too old. Vogue, but not too vogue. Decent crime rate, but nothing like New York or Chicago. Plus . . . besides Edward, none of my kind had ever been drawn to set up a home here, which was a good thing. Stepping on someone else’s territory could be a real problem for me. I’d get my head ripped off. We all have certain gifts that make survival possible—except for William, of course—but physical strength wasn’t one of mine. We don’t choose our gifts.

My particular gift has so many advantages that I’m not sure I’d trade it in if I could. As the smell of Portland’s downtown air blew gently into my nostrils, I put my talent into motion. Too easy.

The dim light of Mickey’s, my favorite bar, glowed off my dress as I walked in the door. I drew my shoulders forward slightly. My wispy blond hair fell down to cover half my face as I assumed a long-accustomed role: fragile and helpless. It never failed.

The dance floor was crowded. Unrecognizable bodies clutched at each other, moving slowly to the sappy lyrics of Journey’s “Faithfully.” This place was one of my ideal hangouts.

“Eleisha.”

A familiar face called to me from the bar, but not the face I’d come looking for. I shifted my features to a frightened, hesitant expression.

“Hi, Derek.” I moved up to the bar and to the inside of his stool, as though intimidated by the crowd and the noise. He knew me pretty well—at least in this persona—and put his hand on my waist in a protective gesture.

“Where you been?” he asked. “You ain’t been here in weeks.”

Derek was okay. I actually thought of him as sort of a friend, as much as he could be. Irish American, with red hair and a short-trimmed beard. Nice guy.

“I came to see Brian. Is he here?”

Derek looked surprised. “Yeah, he’s around somewhere. Doesn’t strike me as your type.”

I flashed him an embarrassed smile. “It’s nothing like that. I just need a favor.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He pulled out his wallet. “How much do you need?”

“No, that’s not it either.”

Lightly, I touched his wrist with the tips of my fingers. The tiny hairs on his arm stood up and his breathing quickened.

“Then what?” he asked. “You never let me do anything for you. You come in here and talk to me and then either leave by yourself or with some loser. I thought we were friends.”

“That’s why you never leave with me. I need to keep my friends. Find Brian, please.”

If this had been anyone but me, he would have spat, “Get lost,” and turned back to his beer. But he didn’t. His eyes were hurt and confused and bright green like Edward’s. Sometimes he actually got to me.

“Okay,” he muttered. “Stay here.”

I watched him work his way through the crowd, and then I turned to Christopher, the bartender, a pseudointellectual with a master’s degree in anthropology.

“What does Brian usually drink?”

“Rum and Coke.”

“Get me one of those and a red wine.”

He grunted something unintelligible and reached toward the glasses. People here were an odd mix of lower-middle-class folks looking for company and a good time. I hung out here because that particular social level of men is especially susceptible to a pretty, young girl who needs someone to “take care of her.” I think it’s because they work so hard, and they sometimes just look at their lives and think, “Why am I doing this?” Then they meet some tiny, helpless creature who looks up to them, and they don’t stand a chance. It’s not really fair, but that’s my gift. That’s what I was given. I don’t like killing. I hate it. There just isn’t any other way.

Derek worked his way across the dance floor, followed by a stocky Italian. Relief washed up into my throat. Brian was a perfect mark—an egotistical pig who owned a cheap basement condo on the south side.

I pulled my small body back up against the bar and looked desperate. “Hi, Brian. I ordered you a drink.”

He seemed amazed and excited but was trying to play it cool. He’d been hitting on me for months. Pathetic.

“Derek says you want to talk to me?”

“Yeah,” I answered quietly, “but it’s private.”

Christopher, the anthropologist bartender, slammed our glasses down on the bar. Derek looked miserable. Brian paid for the drinks and motioned with his head toward an empty table.

“Over there.”

With the sounds of Journey still rolling through my ears, I made a point of following, not leading, Brian to the table.

“What’s up?” He was still playing the unshakable uptown boy. Poor thing.

“I’m in some trouble. I need a place to stay for a few days.”

His eyes lit up like candles in a dark room. If I had said “weeks” he might have balked. Taking advantage of some frightened girl’s situation and letting her sleep in his bed for a few nights was his style. Any longer than that and he’d get bored. Of course, as soon as he unlocked the condo door, I was going to kill him, steal his keys, dump his body, and go get William.

“What kind of trouble?” Brian asked.

Maybe he wasn’t so gullible. I crossed my arms as though shivering and stared at a knot in the wooden table.

“I moved in with this guy a few months ago . . . and then he got mean. I just need someplace to stay. Please.”

He was almost hooked. “Why not stay with Derek?”

“Because he can’t take care of himself like you.”

That did it. Catering to the male ego is so easy it sometimes scares me. They lap that shit up like a cat turned loose on a dairy farm.

“Okay.” He nodded, and I could see a lecherous-father speech coming on.

I look about seventeen years old, and he looked about twenty-eight, but he was going to warn me about the evils of the world anyway. I had phony ID under six different names. Nobody believed I was twenty-one, not even Christopher, but nobody really cared as long as the ID looked real.

“Listen, Eleisha,” Brian began. “You got to watch out for people. Most of the crowd here would eat someone like you for breakfast. You don’t just ‘move in’ with some guy you just met.”

I nodded, still staring at the table. Of course, his gallant words wouldn’t stop him from coming on to me the minute we were alone.

“Stay here,” he said. “Let me get my coat and take you home. Don’t worry about anything.”

Yeah, right. For about a week.

God, he was a pig. I almost didn’t feel sorry for him.

Watching his broad back move through the crowd, I wondered how long it would take me to move William in and get him settled. Since his memory was so short, he had probably already forgotten that Edward was dead and we were in danger. I glanced at my watch: ten forty-five p.m. I’d have to hurry.

What happened next is hard to describe. My mind was drifting in several directions when something touched it. The invasion was not subtle or gradual. It hit me like icy water in a sharp, sudden splash. I lost sight of the table and saw through someone else’s eyes. It was definitely a man. I felt the random movements of his thoughts.

Shock.

Confusion.

His name was Wade.

I tried to tear away, but I couldn’t get him out of my head. The tabletop shifted into focus, and I looked up. Two men were moving across the room toward me. In stunned fear, I recognized both of them—they had been out on the lawn at Edward’s. The tall, blond man leading was the one who’d collapsed from the impact of Edward’s psychic life force pouring out. He was Wade. The stocky man following was a cop. No one here could help me. Not even Derek would get between me and the police.

I bolted for a back door.

Fear kicked my instincts into motion. I slipped through bodies without touching them and ran down the back alley so fast that Wade’s thought waves grew faint.

He was running. He had seen me. His partner’s name was Dominick. Pictures passed through his head for me to see: bodies in Edward’s cellar, the framed photograph of me over the fireplace, and an oil painting of me he’d found in the storage room. The portrait perfectly matched the photograph, but it had been painted in 1872.

How could I have forgotten the painting?

Even knowing I could outrun both of them, I was so panicked I didn’t slow down until Wade was gone, until he had completely lost me, and I was no longer tangled in his thoughts.

What was he? How could he push into my head like that? How much had he seen? It couldn’t have been much. He’d felt almost as startled as me, his thoughts rapid and scattered.

Now what? Staying at Brian’s was out. If Wade had actually tracked me down telepathically . . . How could he?

“We’ve got to get out of here,” I whispered to myself all the way up the back stairs of our house. Simply relocating to another part of Portland wouldn’t help us. We’d have to go much farther.