Driving Mr. Dead (Half-Moon Hollow Series)
Author: Molly Harper
Date: 2012-01-31 00:00:00+00:00
Description: A standalone novella introducing a new side of Half Moon Hollow—featuring a freewheeling courier and the stuffy vampire she has to transport. Miranda Puckett has failed at every job she’s ever had. Her mother just wants her to come home, join the family law firm, and settle down with Jason, the perfect lawyer boyfriend. But when Jason turns out to be a lying cheater, Miranda seizes on a job that gets her out of town: long-distance vampire transportation. Her first assignment is to drive vampire Collin Sutherland from Washington to sleepy Half Moon Hollow without incident—no small feat for a wo
Publisher: Pocket Star

ALSO BY MOLLY HARPER

Nice Girls Don’t Have Fangs

Nice Girls Don’t Date Dead Men

Nice Girls Don’t Live Forever

How to Flirt with a Naked Werewolf

The Art of Seducing a Naked Werewolf

And One Last Thing …

Pocket Books

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2011 by Molly Harper White

Originally published by Audible in December 2011

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information, address Pocket Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.

First Pocket Books ebook edition January 2012

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CONTENTS

Driving Mr. Dead

Nice Girls Don’t Bite Their Neighbors - Teaser

The Care and Feeding of Stray Vampires - Teaser

Don’t forget
to click through after

DRIVING MR. DEAD
for two exclusive sneak peeks
at Molly Harper’s next
delicious novels

NICE GIRLS DON’T BITE THEIR NEIGHBORS
and

THE CARE AND FEEDING OF STRAY VAMPIRES

WHERE’S SAWYER WHEN YOU NEED HIM?

1

I was lost, hopelessly, irretrievably lost. Amelia Earhart lost. All-that’s-missing-is-the-smoke-monster lost. The kind of lost you only got when you were running seriously late and were this close to being fired. Again.

“I suppose a little visibility would be too much to ask,” I muttered, rubbing my sleeve against the fogged glass of the windshield. I squinted at the faded, peeling road sign that marked the fork off Sedgemoore Road. I was pretty sure the bold block letters were painted sometime during the Lewis and Clark expedition. Did my client live so far away from civilization that the Washington highway department simply forgot his road existed? My cell phone’s navigation app had certainly glossed over it. Smartphone, my ass.

I pulled the pimped-out, late-model Suburban I’d dubbed the “Batmobile” onto the muddy shoulder and checked the map again. Sedgemoore Road had several forks. Then again, I wasn’t sure I was still on Sedgemoore. Pierce County only went so far. In my vehicular meanderings through the forest, had I accidentally broken immigration laws and ventured into Canada? I checked the glowing green lights of the digital clock. I was forty minutes behind schedule. Well, yesterday’s schedule. Either way, I should have had Mr. Sutherland loaded up and halfway to Tacoma by now.

Panic surged through my chest, a hot, acidic burn that humiliated as much as it pained. How did this crap always end up happening to me? I wasn’t stupid, careless, or lazy. I didn’t wake up in the morning and think, You know what? Today’s a good day for massive, humiliating failure.

I didn’t intend to be this late in my first official pickup as a “transport specialist” for Beeline, Half-Moon Hollow’s only daytime vampire concierge service. I didn’t intend for a depressed chicken to leap to its death from a Sunny Farms truck, splintering my windshield and requiring a daylong delay in Kansas City for repairs. I certainly didn’t intend for the Batmobile’s post-cross-country/pre-cross-country tune-up to take an hour longer than promised by that sketchy gas-station mechanic, putting me behind schedule and on the road after dark, where no person with ordinary human vision would be able to see through the rain, much less read Sacagawea’s road signs.

Can an inner monologue hyperventilate?

I squeezed my eyes shut, breathing slowly and deliberately through my nose, just like the therapist told me … before I stopped going … after the second session. I focused on the sound of the rain pounding against the roof of the car. I inhaled the scent of the cheap pine air freshener that the detailers used on the upholstery, which was sort of superfluous considering my evergreen surroundings. The steering wheel was warm and smooth beneath my palms, slightly damp.

I forced myself to open my eyes. I was a Puckett, damn it. And Pucketts didn’t lose our nerve. We schemed, we interjected, we occasionally drank too much and told someone what we really thought of them at a Christmas party, but we never lost our nerve. I’d faced situations far more complicated than this before and emerged un-, well, relatively unscathed—without lasting damage, at least. And I’d laughed most of the way. There was no reason to get wound up now.

The water rippled down the windshield, turning the Washington countryside into a murky, verdant mess. Taking another deep breath, I turned off the shoulder, pulled toward the fork, bore right, and then changed to left at the last minute.

It’s a process, and occasionally, it works.

A few miles later, I saw lights through the trees. It took only three attempts for me to find the shrubbery-shrouded driveway entrance, marked with the smallest fricking address plaque in the world. The house itself was gorgeous, one of those timeless cabins of stone and cedar shake built so it looked like part of the terrain. I wanted to weep with relief as I parked the car in front of the vaultlike pine door, but showing up with big mascara tracks down one’s face seemed unprofessional.

I peered up at the huge windows, inconveniently hung with white sheer curtains, so I couldn’t see inside. A man who lived in the middle of nowhere … who didn’t want anyone looking in his windows. That wasn’t a red flag or anything.

“You can do this, Miranda,” I murmured. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. This is just another adventure, uncharted territory … the kind with abandoned country roads … and a creepy guy who needs curtains to hide his activities from his nonexistent neighbors. And that’s definitely new.”

Angry alt rock blared through the pitter-pattering against my windshield. My eyes flicked toward my cell phone and spotted an unwelcome number on the caller ID. I sighed and pressed “ignore,” then silenced the ringer. It wouldn’t do for Mr. Sutherland to know that my on-again, off-again fiancé’s ringtone was Henry Rollins singing, “I’m a liar!”

I had my reasons.

I took a deep breath before hopping out of the car and dashing to the front door. The rain picked up the moment I was out, the wind sweeping in from both sides, pelting my back with sheets of water. In just a few steps, I was soaked, my feet squishing and squeaking inside my low-heeled black boots.

Of course.

Before I could knock, the door swung open. Blue eyes. Ice-blue, with only the tiniest hint of darker sapphire around the pupils. And those peepers were not happy. Yelping, I jumped back and would have fallen on my ass in the mud had not a pale hand shot out to grasp my wrist and yank me inside.

The moment I was through the door, he dropped my wrist as if the contact burned. I pulled my hand back, cradling it to my body and shrinking against the door.

Vampires were generally more attractive than the human population. Whatever they were in life, they ended up just a little bit sexier, with a dash of that “dangerous to know” appeal. Well, Mr. Sutherland had obviously started off with a pretty high bar. His ridiculously shiny coffee-colored hair was tousled in that intentionally messy-sexy way that begged for fingers to comb through it. The dark hair accentuated pale skin and aristocratic features, a high forehead, a straight nose, cheekbones so high that they left sharp hollows on either side of his face, and a generous mouth posed in a permanent sneer.

Given our surroundings, I’d foreseen a vampire Grizzly Adams opening the door. But my new client had been turned sometime in his late thirties. He wore a dapper, almost Victorian, gray three-piece suit with a crisp white shirt, no tie. Frankly, I expected him to whip out a Phantom of the Opera cape any moment.

“Mr. Sutherland?” I squeaked. “Are you Collin Sutherland?”

“Late,” he growled.

Mr. Sutherland loomed over me, the scent of amber and bitter orange making my mouth water. The oceanic eyes narrowed as he scanned me from head to toe. His grimace twisted in an expression of disdain. I glanced down and wondered what was wrong. I was wearing what my boss, Iris, assured me was perfectly acceptable driving attire, dark jeans and a white button-up blouse … which was currently transparent, thanks to the rain.

He yanked me out of contemplations of long fingers and dusky, sneering lips by growling again. “Feet.”

I cleared my throat, because the mouselike voice emitting from my mouth was plain embarrassing. “Beg pardon?”

“Feet!” he hissed.

Would we be communicating in one-word sentences for the next four nights?

I looked down to see small puddles forming around my boots, right on his beautifully polished floor. I sidestepped onto an area rug, but Mr. Sutherland couldn’t have glared more fiercely if I’d piddled on his exquisite hardwood.

We were not off to a good start.

Iris had warned me that Mr. Sutherland was a “delicate case,” but she hadn’t elaborated on what that meant beyond his apparently crippling phobia of airplanes and the fact that he hadn’t left his house in “a long, long time.” Could a chronic case of male PMS be considered “delicate”?

“I am really sorry for the day’s delay, Mr. Sutherland,” I said, my voice uncomfortably tinny. “It couldn’t be avoided. There was this chicken. I think he knew his end was at hand, and I guess he didn’t want to be chicken nuggets—”

Mr. Sutherland pivoted on his heel and disappeared into the kitchen. My lips clamped shut, and I frowned.

I was used to far more pleasant interactions with vampires. I’d worked as a waitress at a vampire bar called Bite for six months. The nonbreathing clients were a lot friendlier than those with pulses, and they left better tips. And in the days after I’d accepted the assignment, Iris, an old high-school classmate, had had me do a series of test runs, ferrying local vampires across town like an undead taxi. I used the first two-hour leg of this journey cross-country to drive her friend Jane from Half-Moon Hollow to Nashville for a booksellers convention. Jane had been downright sweet, keeping me entertained on the brief drive through Tennessee with her absurd life story. None of these experiences had prepared me for Mr. Sutherland’s hostile, monosyllabic reception.

In his absence, I saw that the house was comfortable and quaint. The open floor plan gave visual access to nearly everything, including the spectacular view afforded by the back windows. Rough-hewn polished pine stairs led to a bedroom loft. Comfy-looking leather chairs the color of melting caramel flanked a river-stone fireplace. Bookshelves stocked with leather-bound editions stretched floor to ceiling on the opposite wall. There was no stuffy furniture, no useless dust catchers beyond a red and gold military insignia framed and displayed on the mantel. A lion devouring a snake.

A thump from above snapped me out of my decor ogling. I focused on the little pile of luggage near the foot of the stairs, and I slung a dark leather designer overnight bag onto my shoulder. When I bent to pick up a sleek silver suitcase, there was a blur of motion, the force of which swept my wet hair over my eyes. I lurched to my feet, pulling the damp strands out of my face, just in time to find Mr. Sutherland snatching the case out of my hands.

“You do not touch this case,” he said sternly, shoving a pristine white towel into my hands. He swept across the room to blot my puddle from the floor with a clean cloth. “I am responsible for transporting this case to Ophelia Lambert at midnight four nights from now—a deadline that your tardiness has put in jeopardy, I might add. Therefore, only I touch the case.”

“But—”

“Only I touch the case,” he said.

I was starting to suspect that he had unnatural feelings for that case.

I raised an eyebrow. “Are you going to be handcuffing it to your arm?”

“Very amusing, Miss Puckett,” he said, looking me up and down. “Of course, I’m forced to assume that you are the Miss Puckett described in Miss Scanlon’s correspondence, since you have not, in fact, introduced yourself to me.”

Something about the way his silky voice slid over my skin triggered my “authority figure” complex. And suddenly, I was having some very unwelcome, very naughty images of Mr. Sutherland and his hypothetical handcuffs.

“Oh, right, sorry. Hi, I’m Miranda Puckett. I’m the driver for Beeline.” I reached out my hand to shake, a hand that he pointedly ignored as he swept past me.

Shocked by his rudeness, I merely followed in his wake, muttering to myself. “Nice to meet you, too. Oh, yes, I’m sure we’re going to end up lifelong friends after this road trip. We’re off to such a great start. Feel like I’ve known you my whole life,” I grumbled, toting the bags to the car while he checked and rechecked the locks on his front door. “And I’m talking to myself again. Super.”

I stared at the warm, dry house with longing. A kinder client might have offered me use of the restroom or even coffee. But I was hardly in a position to ask for perks.

To add insult to injury, my tardiness and the weather ruined my plans to introduce Mr. Sutherland to the fabulous features of the Batmobile, which I’d thoroughly rehearsed with a very patient Jane. A decommissioned Council vehicle that Iris had purchased for a song at auction, the Batmobile was built for comfort and safety. While it looked like a mild-mannered SUV from the outside, the Batmobile boasted a light-tight cubby that took up most of the rear compartment’s floorboard, like a compact coffin, allowing the passenger to ride comfortably while I drove us in full sun. Tucked between the front seats sat a cunning little cooler/warmer for blood. It worked a bit like a bottle steamer, using hot water on a timed switch to bring the blood to an even 98.6. The windows were tinted with SPF 500 film so that he would be safe inside the cab if necessary.

I’d become familiar with those features on the three- (OK, four-) day drive to pick up Mr. Sutherland. I’d planned to make him familiar with them before we started the drive back to Half-Moon Hollow so he could deliver a parcel to an official with the World Council for the Equal Treatment of the Undead. But clearly, Mr. Sutherland preferred that we just get on the road. I couldn’t blame him, I supposed. We absolutely, positively had to be back on time, or Mr. Sutherland would not be paid … which meant that Iris would not be paid … which meant that I would not be paid … which would be upsetting.

Using the boatload of upper-body strength it took to close the rear door, I slammed it down. I noticed a pale flash out of the corner of my eye at the last minute. The gate came crashing down on Mr. Sutherland’s fingers with a sickening crunch.

This was a hallucination. I could not be looking at a vampire’s hand caught in a car door, crushed like something out of an Itchy and Scratchy cartoon. I clapped my hands over my mouth and let out a horrified shriek.

“Open the bloody gate!” he roared.

I scrambled for the key fob and clicked it, popping the door open. Mr. Sutherland groaned and flexed his mangled fingers, bent at bizarre angles, obviously broken in several places. Sure, they would fix themselves rapidly with his vampire healing, but it would hurt like a bitch.

“I’m sorry!” I cried, rushing forward to help him. He hissed like a cat and turned his back on me. “Shit! I’m so sorry!”

“Language, Miss Puckett,” he growled over his shoulder. “Did you not see that my hand was in the way?” He grunted as his fingers stretched and snapped back into their proper places.

“Not until the last minute,” I said. “Why didn’t you move your hand when you saw I was closing the door?”

“I thought you would stop the door,” he shot back.

“How was I supposed to do that? I don’t have vampire reflexes!”

“From now on, I will keep your limitations in mind,” he seethed, and pivoted on his heel toward the car door.

Mr. Sutherland was already seated in the middle of the backseat when, shaking my wet hair out of my face, I slid into the driver’s seat. He flexed his reformed fingers and glared at me. The case was tucked safely by his feet on the floor boards, as if he was afraid to lose contact with it for even a moment.

What the hell was in the case? I wondered. Huge stacks of cash? Jewels? What if it was nuclear codes or radioactive materials? Iris seemed like a nice lady. I would hope she wouldn’t involve me in international espionage on my first cross-country job. Maybe the second or third but certainly not the first.

“You’re going to sit in the back?” I asked, glancing at him in the rearview.

He looked me over again, that same pinched, confused expression he’d given me before. I couldn’t blame him. I had just destroyed his right hand. And he seemed to spend an awful lot of time alone …

Catching my reflection in the mirror, I cringed. No wonder Mr. Sutherland seemed so … well, unimpressed would be putting it kindly. My heart-shaped face held few charms beyond a pert little nose and a frame of light brown hair that frizzed in humidity and hung limp in every other sort of -idity. I had a weird, top-heavy mouth that made me look as if I’d been thoroughly kissed, which generally wasn’t the case. I’d inherited my dad’s Puckett green eyes, with little flecks of gold around the pupils and a heavy fringe of lashes. Other than that, I was painfully average, which was strange, because I managed to gum up my life in such spectacular ways.

Given my underwhelming attractions, I supposed that at this point, I should have been grateful that Mr. Sutherland wasn’t making me wear one of those little chauffeur caps to hide my face.

It was just as well that he seemed to think I was some sort of disheveled swamp troll. As tempting as Mr. Sutherland was, dreamy insouciance and angular GQ looks were not my thing. Until I’d met Jason, my boyfriends had borne a disturbing resemblance to Criss Angel.

I had just started the engine when my phone buzzed from the console. Speak of the Polo-wearing, microbrew-swilling devil. It was probably another ass-dial. Jason didn’t like to bother with his screen lock on his phone, so he disabled it, which meant that he was sort of notorious for calling people whenever he sat down. Of the dozens of calls he’d made to my phone over the last few days, he was only aware of half of them.

I wasn’t ready to talk to him or his ass cheeks. And I could only be grateful that I’d turned off the Henry Rollins ringtone before Mr. Sutherland could hear it. I reached for the “ignore” button, only to suffer that velvet vampire voice’s further abuse of my goose-bump response.

“Miss Puckett, I faxed a document concerning my transportation requirements to your employer upon the signing of our contract. Did you not read it?”

Sadly, I had read what amounted to a sixteen-page contract rider, which outlined everything from maximum speeds at which I was allowed to change lanes to fragrances I was allowed to wear to which foods I was allowed to eat in his presence. I thought it was a joke. Clearly, I was wrong.

He cleared his throat pointedly and handed me an extra copy, triple-stapled, along with the credit card I was supposed to be using for our travel expenses. “If you read page ten, you’ll see that phone use or texting while driving is strictly prohibited.”

“Oh, no, I wasn’t going to—”

“No excuses, Miss Puckett,” he said in that clipped, vaguely accented voice.

I gritted my teeth, my voice practically whistling through them as I said, “You know, this whole thing might feel a little less awkward if you called me Miranda.”

“I don’t think so.”

“OK, then,” I ground out, “do you have a music preference?”

“Page twelve, Miss Puckett.”

I flipped through the booklet listing tolerable music selections. I sighed and tuned the radio to a classical station. “It’s going to be a long drive.”

MORE ISSUES THAN NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC

2

We did not manage to become bosom companions in those first few hours on the road. Mr. Sutherland sat in the backseat, silent and taciturn, alternately glaring out the window and checking our progress against an atlas. Did he give me information from the atlas while I struggled to find our way back to civilization? No, he just grimaced every time I made a turn, which was super-helpful.

The plan for this excursion to Half-Moon Hollow, Kentucky, was that I would drive as far as I could each day and well past sunset, letting Mr. Sutherland sleep during the day in the little car cubby. We would pull over at carefully chosen roadside motels at a “reasonable stopping time” so I could eat and rest. Mr. Sutherland didn’t have a driver’s license, so he would not help out with the wheel time.

As I said, that was the plan. But, as in most cases where I was involved, that plan went awry. Terribly, terribly awry. Thanks to our late start and my accidentally looping around Tacoma twice, we reached a motel at 2 A.M. It could not come soon enough. After nearly twenty-eight hours without sleep, I was getting a little punchy. Falling asleep at the wheel and killing myself would be a really bad way to finish up my maiden voyage.

We had not reached the vicinity of the approved first-night motel choices. We weren’t within fifty miles of those choices. There was not a Ramada or a Holiday Inn in sight. Now, the one-story, nondescript-beyond-the-dripping-rust-stains-on-the-exterior-walls Pine Heights Motel? That we had.

I pulled the car to a stop and jumped out without a word to Mr. Sutherland. I didn’t feel obligated, since he hadn’t spared one for me since we’d pulled out of his driveway. I walked into the office to book two rooms, studiously ignoring the fact that the rooms were only thirty-two dollars per night and that the clerk gave me keys—real, old-fashioned, metal keys on honest-to-goodness plastic tags. Also, his emphasis on the “pay-perv-view” channels as an amenity really creeped me out.

When I emerged from the office, feeling significantly less confident in the accommodations than when I’d walked in, Mr. Sutherland was leaning against the car, glowering at any object that crossed his field of vision.

“This motel, if you can even call it that, is unacceptable. Miss Puckett, if you will review the preapproved itinerary—”

“I did read it, all sixteen pages,” I told him. “And unfortunately, we weren’t able to make it as far as planned—”

“Unacceptable!”

“Whether you accept it or not, that’s the way it is!” I shouted back.

Mr. Sutherland squinted at me again, which was either his idea of intimidation or he had some strange facial tic when he was angry. He snatched the key from my hand. “And my credit card, if you please. I don’t believe I can trust you with purchasing decisions.”

I slapped the card into his outstretched palm, then yanked the rear door open and dropped his overnight bag at his feet. Counting down from ten, I cleared my throat, hoping that I sounded the least bit contrite. “Look, we are on the road. Traveling is unpredictable. There will be contingencies. You are just going to have to accept that the days will not go completely according to plan.”

Mr. Sutherland smiled nastily. “I’ll be sure to tell your supervisor you said so.” He spun in the direction of his room, without a glance back at me. “Good night, Miss Puckett.”

I pressed the heel of my hand against my sternum, hoping to quell the tension building there as he walked away. Mr. Sutherland slipped the key into the door to 6C, pointedly ignoring my presence. I glared at his back, praying that I could keep my mouth shut and get my ass into my room before I chucked a loose cement block at his head. Calm, I told myself. Stay cool. Do not concuss the client.

And then I remembered the disdainful little sneer he’d given me when my shoes dripped on his precious floor. And the snotty way he’d informed me that I wasn’t responsible enough to be trusted with his credit card. No, he was not going to get away with talking to me that way. I would not put up with that bullshit for three more nights.

“You know what, you are a real piece of work.”

He turned to give me an incredulous look.

I cleared my throat and tried for a more respectful tone. Not because I was working for him but because, you know, he had fangs. “If you feel the need to contact Ms. Scanlon, I don’t suppose there’s anything I can do to stop you.” He smirked slightly, before I added, “But if you plan to call now, I think you should consider how you’re going to get home.”

He didn’t offer me another glance as he slammed his room door shut.

I opened my door and shut it behind me, whacking my head against the state room-tax notice. A familiar rise of panic burned my throat at the idea of returning home early, of seeing Jason before I was ready. But if Mr. Sutherland was going to tattle on me, there wasn’t anything I could do to stop him, so I might as well get a good night’s sleep. Sighing, I dropped my bag onto the bed and scanned the dismal little room. It was too dirty to be considered Spartan, too outdated to be considered retro. The carpet may have been a sort of burnt orange at some point, but it was now more of a knotty brownish gray. The bedspread was the same paper-thin synthetic fiber used in all cheap motels. I had no doubt that long after the nuclear winter, future civilizations would visit our planet and find scratchy motel bedspreads flapping across the earth’s wasted landscape. I made a mental note to toss that particular specimen to the floor and avoid touching it for the remainder of my stay. I was not sleeping on that thing.

I checked my phone again, finding that Jason was down two calls to my mother, who had called a total of ten times that day. Pulling my phone out of my pocket, I calculated the time difference. It was 5:30 A.M. in Kentucky, which meant Mom would be up and on her treadmill already—just another way in which I wasn’t living up to her high standards. She picked up on the first ring.

“Sweetheart!” she cried. “Why haven’t you called?”

“Because you’ve been calling enough for the both of us?” I suggested dryly.

“Well, I just wanted to know that you’d arrived safely.” She was using the unreasonable client-quelling voice that she used as one Puckett in the firm of Puckett and Puckett, Attorneys at Law. This was not a good sign.

Mom, my father, and my brother, Glenn, practiced in the long-held family firm, their shiny law degrees from the University of Kentucky displayed together in a three-part frame. There was supposed to be a fourth frame, but I hadn’t finished the requirements for a bachelor’s degree, much less law school.

I rubbed at my left eye, which tended to twitch when Mom used “the voice” on me. “Which was why I texted you as soon as I arrived in Tacoma.”

“Yes,” she protested. “But I want to know how it’s going!”

Now, most people would consider that the sweet, interested curiosity of an involved parent. But my mother had ulterior motives. Mom didn’t want me to tell her how well I was doing or what Mr. Sutherland was like. She wanted to know if I was tanking ahead of schedule, forcing me to “come to my senses” and drive my butt back to Half-Moon Hollow, where I was safe and contained.

As much as her assumptions of disaster hurt, I supposed she had good reason. At the tender age of twenty-six, I’d launched failed careers as, among many other things, a photographer, a pastry chef, a magician’s assistant, and a florist. Mom and I suffered from an opposition of life philosophies. I tried to think of life as the search for the next great adventure. I liked waking up each morning not knowing what I would be doing by the end of the day. I liked learning new things, throwing myself into new situations, even if it meant a few bumps and scrapes along the way. But ultimately, I was a guidance counselor’s cautionary tale. Mom blamed the public-school system and insisted that the family should have sent me to St. Bridget’s Academy across town, even if it meant having to convert.

We were about as old money as a family could get in Half-Moon Hollow. Pucketts were pillars of the community. We served on committees and councils. We funded buildings and restored memorial statues. We sponsored youth sports teams and hosted Labor Day picnics for state senators.

Well, that’s what my family did. I served the community in more of a “judge ordered me to” sort of way. Until the previous year, I’d been the family embarrassment, the college dropout, the kid who never quite made it into the Christmas newsletter. My shameful status was temporarily revoked when—

“Have you called Jason?” Mom asked.

—when I agreed to marry Jason.

I let out a long, slow breath. “No. The point of me taking this trip is that I have space and don’t have to talk to Jason, so I can figure out what I want.”

Mom sniffed. “Well, he’s worried. I know you’re upset with him, but he’s worried about you. He asked me to pass that along.”

“Hmph.”

“I really think you should just come on home. I know you’re hurt, honey, and I’m not saying you don’t have good reason. But you can’t run away from your problems. I’m so worried about you, out there on your own. And how are you supposed to do … whatever it is that you’re going to do concerning Jason unless you talk it out?”

I tugged at Jason’s tasteful diamond engagement ring, hanging from a sturdy chain around my neck. “We did talk it out, Mom. We have spent hours talking around and around this Lisa thing. We spent a whole weekend getaway at the lake talking about it. I canceled the wedding. I keep giving his ring back, but he finds some way to slip it to me again. We’re never going to break out of this weird, pointless cycle unless I have time to figure out what I want, without him hovering over me with apology flowers, apology candy, apology jelly.”

“Apology jelly?”

“Yeah, I didn’t get that one, either,” I muttered.

“Well, I don’t think this temp job”—Mom said the words with as much contempt as good manners and the Botox injections that kept her from expressing the full range of human emotions permitted—“is the answer to your problems. And besides, we miss you around the office. It’s just not the same without you.”

“I’ll bet.” I chuckled, genuinely laughing for the first time all day.

Despite the fact that I lacked only two credits for my certification, I was a terrible paralegal. Filing systems made my head hurt. I could not handle rude clients in the delicate, pacifying manner prescribed by firm policy. And every time I used the Xerox machine, I posed a danger to myself and others.

But since the spectacular failure of my photography studio in Chicago, I’d been training under the aging Mrs. Whitaker to take her place as the primary support staffer at Puckett and Puckett. My parents were well aware that I wasn’t an asset to their office. But they wanted to know that I was safe, that I was taken care of. And ultimately, I think that was why they liked the idea of my marrying Jason. He was safe. He would be a good provider. And he would probably keep me from setting fires with most household appliances.

“Mom, everything’s fine here. I’m enjoying my time on the road.” I sighed. “I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

“Oh, sweetheart, how could you say that? You know I’m only worried about you. I would think that you would want to come home, just so I would know you were safe. I just want you to be happy.”

As long as it was her preferred brand of happiness.

“I like this temp job, Mom. It was really nice of Iris to hook me up with this assignment. She knew I wanted to get out of town to clear my head, and she helped me out. And believe it or not, I’m actually qualified for the work. I’ve moved almost a dozen times over the last eight years. I have a lot of experience driving back and forth across the country,” I said, taking the phone away from my ear long enough to pull a White Stripes T-shirt over my head. “And the one thing that you can say proudly is that I have a pristine driving record.”

My close encounter with the despondent chicken was on a need-to-know basis. Mom didn’t need to know.

“Well, it seems a very silly way to make a living.” She sniffed. “Then again, if it lasts as long as the other jobs, I won’t have much to worry about.”

And there went the eye again.

A half hour and many “I just want what’s best for you’s” later, my self-esteem was properly checked. Mom had given me the up-to-the-minute news on my family. Jason had successfully defended one of Daddy’s best friends from tax-evasion charges. Daddy shot a seventy at the Half-Moon Hollow Country Club and Catfish Farm, a new personal best. Glenn had just broken a record for highest-ever settlement against a grocery store in Kentucky. The management at the Shop-N-Go in Murphy hadn’t properly shelved bottles of dish soap, resulting in back pain and suffering for someone not smart enough to step around a puddle of it. My sister-in-law, Courtney Herndon-Puckett, had decided to open a brick-and-mortar store for her start-up cosmetics business.

OK, that one caught me off-guard.

“Does the world really need an outlet for repackaged Mary Kay products?” I asked, slipping into well-worn jeans and orange Chucks.

“Please don’t mention Mary Kay in front of Courtney. You know that upsets her.”

Courtney wanted to teach me how to apply makeup that didn’t make me look like “a sad-clown hooker,” film it, and post it on YouTube to promote her business. I wasn’t really worried about Courtney’s feelings.

I managed to wind down the conversation halfway through the semicondensed version of who from church was having surgery/a baby/surgery to help them “tighten up” by saying, “Sorry, Mom, my boss is calling on the other line,” and hanging up quickly. Was there a call from Iris? No. But it was more mature than what I used to tell her to cut calls short: “Sorry, Mom, a pigeon just spontaneously combusted on my windowsill.” That only worked when I was living in a city, anyway.

Palming my keys, I took a deep breath as I wandered out into the cool early-autumn night. Talking to my mother always left me feeling hollowed out, as if someone had taken an overpriced melon baller from Williams-Sonoma and scraped away perfectly spherical chunks of my resolve. Picturing a giant fruit salad composed of my emotions probably meant that I needed food desperately, or I would never get enough sleep to qualify as human in the morning. The Waffle Shoppe sign blinking across the parking lot put me in the mood for French toast.

Hold the melon.

The Waffle Shoppe did not disappoint. It had all of the charm and atmosphere you’d expect for a place that sold all-you-can-eat pancakes for $3.95. The Formica table was peeling, and three-quarters of the menu pages were stuck together with some mercifully unidentifiable mystery substance. But the coffee was hot, and the patrons were quiet. If I’d had my camera, I would have taken quiet, quick face shots, character studies. People were way more interesting to shoot while they were concentrating on their food, but you had to be careful, because in some establishments, the management took that personally … or they suspected that you were a narc.

I struck up a friendly conversation with Nina, my waitress, which, according to the truck-stop code, meant that my food wouldn’t be spit in intentionally before it arrived at my table. I consider that a quality dining experience.

After a delicious breakfast/dinner of apple cinnamon French toast and hash browns, I wandered into the motel parking lot, carbo-loaded and ready for bed. I had a long day of appeasing the ninety-year-old woman trapped in a vampire’s body ahead of me, and that would require sleep.

Shuffling across the lot, I plucked nervously at the engagement ring I wore around my neck. I hadn’t wanted to hold on to the ring at first. The moment I’d found out about Jason and Lisa, I’d taken it off and hurled it across the room, vowing never to touch it again. And I wouldn’t have, if the damn thing hadn’t gotten caught in my vacuum cleaner and destroyed it … the vacuum cleaner, I mean. The ring was fine. Damn it.

I’d seriously considered putting it through a wood chipper and sending him the fragments. But considering that it had survived the innards of my vacuum cleaner unscathed, I foresaw that plan ending in some sort of tragic, accidental Fargo scenario.

Jason Cordner was my first serious boyfriend. I’d dated casually before, but the boys I chose were either as dull as a box of mud or closet sociopaths. I’d moved back home, licking my wounds from the inevitable collapse of my studio, and my parents thought I needed “good influences.” I was on the verge of making up a boyfriend to get my mom off my back when I met Jason at the annual Puckett Labor Day picnic.

Jason was a junior partner in a law firm my parents occasionally consulted with. I dropped buffalo wings down the back of his polo shirt. He claimed it was love at first sight. I think he might have gotten barbecue sauce in his eye.

I liked Jason. He didn’t light my world on fire at first, but he seemed like a genuinely nice guy, a kind person. He made me laugh. He let me in on intimate little details that none of my previous boyfriends had shared, such as home address and marital status. And he made me feel centered, special, as if I was a fascinating work in progress, instead of an enormous fuck-up. We did all of the normal, boring things that normal, boring couples did. Pizza, Half-Moon Hollow High football games, arguing whether to watch a Sandra Bullock movie or Vin Diesel. He introduced me to his best friend, Lisa, who’d lived next door since they were kids.

The year we were together was the calmest of my life. Jason thought it was “cute” that I loved photography and suggested that I work at the Sears photo studio part-time if the artistic urge struck. My parents saw our relationship as some sort of sign that I was growing up. They stopped questioning me like a naughty teenager every time I left the house. They stopped telling quite so many embarrassing stories about me at family dinners. I think they were afraid that they were going to scare Jason off. They could not have been happier when Jason proposed, Daddy because it meant that I was someone else’s problem now and Mom because it meant that I wouldn’t move away from Half-Moon Hollow and she’d be able to keep an eye on me.

Because of their assurances that they were “like brother and sister,” I accepted Jason and Lisa’s relationship at face value. I overlooked inside jokes, frequent hugs, and sickeningly sweet nicknames. And then, one afternoon, I was shopping for wedding dresses with Lisa—my maid of honor—and she left her purse in the dressing room with me. Her phone went off while she went to look at a veil, and I recognized Jason’s text ringtone, the clink-clink sound from Law and Order. I ignored it once, and twice, and three times. He texted her four times in the span of about three minutes, and even though I knew it was a bad idea to look at her phone, my curiosity won out. The texts were descriptive and detailed. He was so in love with her, he typed out in painstaking text-speak, but so confused. He loved me, but he felt like a fraud when he was with me. He didn’t want to hurt me, but he didn’t want to lose her. He begged her not to give up on him while he “figured things out.”

To say that I flipped my shit in the middle of the Bridal Barn was an understatement. Because I also flipped a rack of plus-sized mother-of-the-bride dresses and a display of bridal tiaras and the cash register, all in an effort to get my hands on Lisa.

I paid for the damages out of a weekly deduction from my Puckett and Puckett paycheck.

Most of the damages.

Jason’s betrayal wrecked me in ways I hadn’t imagined possible. I didn’t get out of bed for days … after my dad bailed me out of jail for the public-disturbance charges. I didn’t eat. I didn’t sleep. I didn’t realize how much I could hurt until the first man I’d opened my heart to considered me second-best. I’d loved him. I’d loved what I thought was a kind heart, a strong soul. He was always so good, so open with me; I didn’t think he’d ever lie to me. I didn’t think he was capable of it. I’d loved the life I thought we were going to lead together. I thought that making a life with someone, accepting all of his quirks and differences, seemed like the ultimate epic adventure. And I’d worked hard to make myself into the woman I thought he deserved. I honestly tried to make the best of my job at the law firm. I let my mother select a work wardrobe for me at the Elegant Professional Boutique, which specialized in pantsuits in a dazzling array of taupe. I stopped dyeing neon streaks into my hair. Eventually, the most exciting part of my day was choosing which flavor of yogurt to take with me for lunch.

Little by little, I’d given up so much of myself, and the painfully embarrassing thing was that Jason hadn’t even asked me to. I’d done it willingly, because I thought it was what he wanted. It turned out, of course, that what he wanted was Lisa. After all of that, he still didn’t want me. The life I thought we would share didn’t mean anything to him. If it had, he would have been honest with me. He wouldn’t have been able to tell another woman that he loved her.

Jason was torn—and not in the way I wanted him to be. When he realized that I was going to call off the wedding because of what he insisted was just an emotional affair, he promised me that it was over. The wedding plans had scared him, he insisted, and he’d panicked. That was something I could understand. Mom’s daily quizzes on napkin colors and floral preferences nearly drove me to the brink, and I was supposed to be interested in that stuff. I felt terrible, listening to his voice, that I hadn’t noticed how stressed he was. Maybe if I’d picked up on it, we could have avoided this whole mess.

I wanted to believe him. I wanted to forgive him. I wasn’t ready to give up what I thought we’d had together or my parents’ tacit approval. But my anger kept getting the better of me. Every once in a while, I would be overwhelmed with the urge to punch Jason in the throat. I couldn’t seem to stop checking his texts whenever he left the room. I wanted to trust him, but after reading the sweet, loving messages he’d sent his supposedly platonic best friend, I felt this weird need to assure myself of his fidelity. I was starting to feel like that crazy girl you saw on episodes of Cheaters, and I hated every moment of it, so I broke it off with him. And even though part of me still loved him, I canceled all of the reservations and wedding plans. The ring relay cycle began. I gave it back. He returned it. I gave it back. He returned it.

On our scheduled wedding day, when Jason said he had something to ask me, I said I had something to tell him. He went first and proposed all over again. I responded that I would be leaving in two days to take a vampire-transport job from Iris and needed the time to think about whether I’d ever be ready to trust him again. I was determined to make a final decision on the road. When I got back, I told him, I was either going to commit to Jason or give back his ring permanently.

I was pretty sure he wished that I’d gone first.

These were heavy thoughts, unwelcome distractions, as I made my way across an empty parking lot, also known as the lonely serial killer’s playground. As I crossed the battered concrete partition that separated the motel lot from the restaurant, I heard the faint plinks of gravel skittering across blacktop behind me. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled up. I was being watched. I could feel eyes sliding over my skin like some icky radar system. I squared my shoulders and listened attentively as I moved.

I was about thirty paces from the motel office, twice that to my room. I could break out at a run, but that could provoke the nasty “chase” instinct common in parking-lot predators. And there was a good chance that I could trip and smash my face on a speed bump.

When I’d worked at Bite, a vampire bar just outside Chicago, the bouncer trained the waitresses on basic self-defense. The owner didn’t want us walking to our cars after closing without some idea of how to take care of ourselves. I actually did pretty well in my sparring matches, despite the fact that Tino the bouncer was roughly the size of a compact car. Tino speculated that my unique ability to find trouble meant that I spent more quality time in panic mode than the average person. Being accustomed to the fight-or-flight response, I was able to channel all of my adrenaline into hurting someone besides myself. After I called Tino a number of colorful names, I thanked him for his helpful insight.

My ability to defend myself in rough situations—along with a brief but memorable stint as a taxi driver in Cleveland—turned into quite the selling point for my boss, Iris, during the hiring process. I could parallel-park and adjust my radio while flipping a rude gesture at another driver, all the while calculating a 20-percent tip in my head. I demonstrated my skills to Iris when she hired me. She asked me never to do it again.

I slowed my steps, unwilling to stop completely and look around. I popped my thumbs, shaking the blood into my fingers, still hoping that I could make it to my room without confronting Mr. Parking Lot Creeper. It had been a very long time since my last sparring match with Tino, and I stood a pretty good chance of pulling something. Driving long hours the next day with a wrenched hamstring would suck.

Seriously, where is half-naked, oil-covered Jason Statham when you need him? I wondered, thinking of The Transporter and how he would handle this situation.

The crunch of gravel moved closer, maybe five paces behind me.

Stand and fight it was, then.

Just as I was about to turn and yell at whoever it was to leave me the hell alone, I heard a shout and the sound of feet dragging across pavement. Two mismatched truckers in full plaid regalia had Mr. Sutherland pinned against a car, wrapping a thick chain around his middle. My client seemed more embarrassed than angry, his fangs in full play as he spoke in that rapid, clipped accent. “Get your hands off of me, you cretins!”

“We caught you, asshole! You don’t sneak up on ladies like that!” the heavier of the two truckers shouted in a heavy Texas accent, giving Mr. Sutherland a violent shake. His arms, bared by ripped sleeves, were as thick as tree trunks and twice as gnarly. His partner had more of a straw-blown build, dirty-blond hair, and a lazy eye that seemed to follow me as I stormed over to them.

“Hey!” I yelled. “Let him go!”

“Get back!” the lankier trucker yelled. “Go to your room, honey. Just get out of here. Let us take care of this.”

“What do you think you’re doing?” I demanded as he looped the chain around Mr. Sutherland’s arms, pinning them to his waist. His skin sizzled and smoked where the chain came into contact with his wrists. These idiots must have sprayed the chain down with colloidal silver, a common trick among bar brawlers who were unsure of whether their opponents were living or undead. For vampires, touching it resulted in burning, itching, weakened muscles and, eventually, a wish for death. And Mr. Sutherland was sort of emo, anyway.

I surged forward, making a grab for him, but Lanky caught my arm and dragged me away to a “safe distance.” My hand clamped over my purse strap, and I yanked free, using Lanky’s body momentum to shove him a good arm’s length away.

“Saw this foreign jackwagon following you from the diner, all stealthy-like,” said Heavy-Set, his bewhiskered jowls aquiver. “We figured he wanted to make you his midnight snack or worse. Girlie, don’t you know better than to wander at night when there are vampires running around? We saved your life!”

I turned on Mr. Sutherland. “You were following me? Really?”

Mr. Sutherland huffed indignantly but didn’t comment, what with the silver cutting into his flesh and slowly poisoning him.

“The way we look at it, you owe us a little reward,” Lanky said, posturing and leering at me.

“Look, I appreciate the thought … and the inappropriate, ultimately doomed flirting,” I said, approaching them slowly with my hands up.

Weakened by silver, Mr. Sutherland sagged against the car. Heavy-Set was leaning on him, counting on his bulk and the silver to keep my vampire client in place. But the trucker’s feet were set too close together, and his center of gravity was too low. One hard push, and Mr. Sutherland could get loose.

Lanky was circling a bit too close to me for my comfort, arms down at his sides, because I was no threat, in his mind.

I smiled sweetly and added, “And I understand the urge to hurt him. Hell, I’ve only known him for a couple of hours, and I would gladly punch him in the junk for you. The problem with that is that the grumpy, slightly creepy guy you’re wrangling is my responsibility. I’ve got to deliver him halfway across the country in three days. I get paid less if he’s banged up and silver-scarred.”

“You work for them?” Lanky demanded, thoroughly disgusted. “For vampires?”

“I know it’s cliché, but the dental plan is amazing,” I deadpanned. “So what I need you to do is step away from the vampire and move along.”

Heavy-Set shook his head, twisting the chain a bit tighter around Mr. Sutherland and dragging him toward the bed of their truck. “Nope, I can’t let that happen. You need to be protected from yourself, honey. And that means we teach Mr. Dead here that you don’t stalk ladies in parking lots.”

“Don’t worry, he won’t be able to hurt you,” Lanky assured me. “We’ll take care of him.”

I sighed. “I’m really sorry about this, but I’m afraid I can’t let that happen.”

While Lanky was distracted by Mr. Sutherland’s struggles, I brought my arm down, just hard enough to pop him on the side of the neck. Tino would have been very proud. The bony heel of my hand connected with the supersensitive brachial nerve, and Lanky’s legs folded under him as if some cruel puppeteer had cut his strings. He collapsed, boneless, and his head bounced against the pavement with a solid thunk that set my teeth on edge.

He was going to feel that in the morning.

I shot a look over my shoulder, to where Mr. Sutherland had shimmied free from the chain and held Heavy-Set by his neck, his feet dangling four inches off the ground. It would appear that Mr. Sutherland had regained his strength rather quickly.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, attacking a vampire in a parking lot? Are you nuts?” I demanded as the redneck coughed and wheezed, clawing at the hands clutching his throat. I gently tapped Mr. Sutherland on the shoulder. He snarled at me, fangs bared. I took a step back, my hands raised. “It’s hard to understand him when he can’t breathe. Damn it, Mr. Sutherland, put him down!”

I kept waiting for him to release his grip on the wayward do-gooder, but he continued to hold him. “Language, Miss Puckett.”

“Mr. Sutherland,” I said, clearing my throat, “I think it would be better if we just sent these men on their way. They didn’t mean any harm … to me.”

“I didn’t see them coming,” Mr. Sutherland seethed.

That … was an odd response.

“Well, it’s been a while since you’ve been out of the house, right?” I told him. “Maybe your instincts are just a little off. I’m sure in a day or so, you’ll be back to your hyperaware, completely paranoid self.”

He growled, squeezing Heavy-Set’s throat until he turned a disturbing shade of puce.

“If you kill him, it’s going to mean calling the police, filing a bunch of paperwork, and missing your deadline with the Council,” I reminded him.

With a hiss, Mr. Sutherland dropped Heavy-Set to his feet. Heavy-Set sank to his knees, coughing and sputtering. He saw his friend crumpled on the pavement like a battered rag doll. “Damn it, you killed Mel!”

I stepped between Heavy-Set and Mr. Sutherland. “Your friend should be fine in a few minutes. Just make him sit up slowly, and help him get up on his feet. He’s going to be sort of wobbly. And please tell him I’m really sorry about the headache.”

Heavy-Set struggled to his feet. He pulled at Lanky’s arms, dragging his dead weight to the truck and barely missing shutting the door on his leg as it flopped uselessly out of the cab. They screeched out of the parking lot as if their taillights were on fire.

I turned to Mr. Sutherland with as much poise as I could muster and demanded, “What the hell? Why were you following me? What are you even doing out of the room?”

“I wanted to keep an eye on you. I wanted to make sure I could trust you.”

“So I’m untrustworthy because I deviated from your precious schedule?” I demanded. “What, you thought I was going to meet a co-conspirator at a diner, so we could plan the kidnapping of the most anal-retentive, fastidious vampire since Freud? You have more issues than National Geographic.”

Yes, Freud was a vampire, which, when you thought about it, made sense. It was the only plausible explanation for his theories’ maintaining academic credence for so long.

“I can’t see anything coming when I’m with you,” he bit out, his voice frustrated and gravelly. The cords of his neck stood out as he loomed over me. His hands rose as if he was going to grasp my arms.

I stood, teetering on the edge of a choice. Let him touch me, give in to the strange skittering thrill his voice sent up my spine, or move and maintain my sanity.

I grunted, backing away. “What does that even mean?”

“I don’t know!” he shouted back.

“Fine!” I huffed, turning on my heel toward the motel. I’d had enough of this crap for one night. What gave him the right to follow me? Spy on me? Let him call Iris. Let him tell her why I had to save his butt from redneck bystanders. Heck, she might hire me full-time. At the moment, I just wanted to shower and get some sleep before we had to get back on the road.

Mr. Sutherland kept pace with me, checking over his shoulder every few seconds to make sure we weren’t being followed. “How exactly did you manage to overpower a man twice your size, if you don’t mind my asking?”

I stopped, tilting my head toward him. “Iris didn’t tell you about my background, did she?”

“Your CV did not include mentions of your amateur cage-fighting career, no,” he said as I unlocked my room door.

“Can you keep a secret?” I asked, giving a sly little grin as I leaned closer.

His lips quirked, and for the first time, I saw what his face looked like without that mocking veneer. His eyes crinkled a bit at the corners, twinkling at me in mischievous pleasure. “I’m a vampire. Of course, I can.”

“So can I.” With a sharp smile, I slammed the door in his face.

Motel showers were always a crapshoot. The temperature always seemed to hover between “weakly warm” and “human lobster.” And there was always the chance that you could find new friends with more legs than you, scuttling out from under the shower curtain. I really hated that. But the Pine Heights showers seemed bug-free, if lacking water pressure.

The rush of smacking someone around had finally ebbed, and I was drained of all energy. I had to lean against the wall to wash off the road dirt with a washcloth that could have doubled as sandpaper. I slipped into boxers and a wife-beater, enjoying the chance to go braless after more than eighteen hours of being lifted and separated. I towel-dried my thick hair, humming the melody to a Lady Gaga song and reveling in the thought of sleep.

After digging lip balm and a paperback—my nighttime essentials—out of my shoulder bag, I tossed the towel aside. I coated my lips in Burt’s Bees balm and found my place in my Catch-22. I’d only read two paragraphs before the door connecting our adjoining rooms rattled under thunderous, rapid knocks from the other side. Forgetting my braless state, I opened the door to find Mr. Sutherland wearing emerald-green monogrammed silk pajamas and a stricken expression.

Had I fallen asleep and woken up in a Rock Hudson movie?

He glanced down, eyes widening at my skimpy sleepwear. I cleared my throat. “Can I help you?”

He grimaced, far more Tony Randall than Rock. “My wallet is missing.”

A DAY WITHOUT A SWORN AFFIDAVIT IS LIKE A DAY WITHOUT SUNSHINE

3

I laughed. There was no other choice. I could have sworn that Mr. Sutherland had just broken into my room wearing full-on Hefner PJs to tell me his wallet had been stolen. His wallet, which contained the credit card we were using to book hotel rooms and buy my meals, was missing. That was the height of fricking hilarity as far as I was concerned.

“Why are you laughing?” he demanded.

“Y-you’re wearing pajamas.” I giggled. “You’re not even going to sleep. You went to the trouble of packing pajamas, and you don’t—”

He glowered down at me. I realized that I was bent at the waist, hee-hawing like a fool, giving an agitated vampire a full down-to-the-navel view of my cleavage. I sobered and straightened, giving him an apologetic little smile.

“You’re sure it’s not in your room somewhere?” I asked carefully, wiping my eyes. “Or maybe in the car?”

“Do you think I would have knocked if I had not already turned my room upside-down looking for it?” he asked sarcastically.

I thought back to our run-in with Lanky and Heavy-Set. They’d had more than enough time to snake Mr. Sutherland’s wallet out of his pocket while they were wrestling around with him. Between the silver and the strange overtures, both of us had been pretty distracted. Had the whole “Good Samaritan Stooges” act been just that, an act? Had mugging my client been the point all along? Had they driven off, stunned and scared, only to pull into another parking lot and pretend to care whether another girl was being targeted as an easy mark?

I think that hurt my feelings a little bit.

“I’m sure it was in my jacket pocket when we were … out,” he said vehemently. Suddenly, an expression of indignant shock twisted his features. “I think those ruffians from the parking lot might have taken it!”

“You don’t say!” I groaned, scrubbing my hands over my face.

His expression was grim, and still somehow incredulous, when I tossed him my phone. “Call all of your credit-card companies to report the thefts. My phone has Internet access, so you can look up all of the customer-service numbers. They’ll probably require that you file a police report before they send replacement cards. If you call the police, wake me up, and I’ll give them a statement.”

“You’re going to sleep? Now?” he asked, frowning.

“Yes, unless you want to miss your deadline because I fell asleep at the wheel and crashed the car. You can stay up long enough to make your calls, leave my phone on the nightstand, then sleep through the day. Just make sure you crawl into the car cubby before sunset.”

“You make a surprisingly reasonable argument,” he grumbled. “I assume you’re going to call Miss Scanlon to report this?”

“Mm-hmm,” I said, in the least committal tone one could use without being struck down by lightning for lying. “Good night.”

I closed the door and bumped my forehead against the cold, unyielding metal. There was no way in hell I was calling Iris. Not only had I allowed a client to get assaulted, but now he’d been mugged, too? This was not how one repaid a favor from an old friend.

I snatched up my own bag and found that my wallet was intact. Beeline employees weren’t allowed to use our company “fleet” cards for anything except gas. A digital lock on the cards allowed use only at service stations. Iris said it kept clients from bulldozing us into covering our own meals and hotel fees with company funds. She’d been stiffed too many times by clients who welched once the receipts were submitted for reimbursement. Vampires hated receipts.

Mr. Sutherland and I would just have to survive on my meager plastic until we reached the Hollow. I had just enough room on my MasterCard to make it work. I could only hope that Iris would be so impressed with my creatively overcoming the obstacle that she didn’t offer me up to the vampires as a party snack.

I flopped down on the lumpy motel mattress and buried my face in the flat, flaccid pillow. “Why couldn’t he have just taken the train?”

Six A.M. came far too quickly. And I woke to find that any commiserating camaraderie I might have built with Mr. Sutherland the night before had evaporated with the sunrise. A note, neatly folded under my phone on the nightstand, managed to insult me in an impressively elegant script.

Dear Miss Puckett,

When you manage to rouse yourself, you will find that I am safely tucked away in the car.

I spoke to the police last night to file an incident report. There was no problem with the credibility of my statement, as the blundering duo we encountered have perpetrated this scheme before on couples undead and living—pretending to protect the female from assault while picking the male’s pocket.

“I knew it,” I muttered to myself.

Security video shows the rogues following you from what can loosely be termed a restaurant, so the police know whom they must take into custody. The officers need affidavits from both of us to prosecute the charges after we leave town. I gave mine last night. I took the liberty of writing a statement from your perspective, which will reflect the information given in my own. You will find that the handwriting matches the rather unique penmanship I found on a grocery list in your purse.

“What the—boundaries!” I gasped, hopping out of bed to retrieve my shoulder bag. The list in question was tucked under the purse strap. Apparently, I’d needed “tampons, Fiber One bars, and depilatory cream.”

“Kill me now.”

I glanced at the bottom of my bag and saw that my photo journal had been disturbed. The white ribbon I usually kept around it, a castoff from one of my mother’s Tiffany gift boxes, was tied into a pristine square knot that I couldn’t manage if my life depended on it.

“You asshole!” I hissed at the offending piece of paper. “You presumptuous, invasive vampire asshole!”

Sutherland had rifled through my stuff. He’d looked through the album of photos that I kept just for me, remembrances of moments in my life that I wanted to keep with me forever. He’d touched my things, touched my memories, without asking, because he thought being undead or being the client gave him the right.

I was going to be hitting the brakes without warning a lot today.

I gritted my teeth and continued to read, all the while muttering curses under my breath.

The officers asked that you sign the statement and bring it by the department offices before we leave town. Please make this a priority before any other errands.

To maintain our schedule, I expect that we will reach the Idaho state line by the time I rise. According to my almanac, the sun will set at 6:03 P.M. I expect the car to be stopped and a bottled Type A to be ready at that time.

We must reach Bozeman by the time we retire this evening, Miss Puckett. I will not accept excuses.

Drive safely.

CS

The initials were written with a pretty little flourish, which, after staring at it for a moment or two, I realized was an arrow, indicating I should flip the page over.

P.S. Please remember that the car is not to be driven faster than 65 miles per hour, as outlined on page 5 of the contract rider.

P.P.S. Please remember that you are not to open to the transport cubby at any time before sunset, as outlined on page 2 of the contract rider. The cubby door should not open unless the car comes to a complete stop.

P.P.P.S. Please remember that the car is to remain free of litter, crumbs, and extraneous personal items, as outlined on page 4 of the contract rider.

I would consider the wisdom of leaving the adjoining-room door unlocked—and exactly how long he had been in the room while I was sleeping—at a later time.

I rolled back onto the mattress, pressing my face into the pillow and groaning like a zombie on crank. Murdering a client while he slept was immoral, I supposed. But I didn’t like my chances if I tried while he was awake.

I rose from the thin hotel sheets, stiff and achy, stretching my arms over my head. In the two weeks I’d been home, prepping for this job, I hadn’t had time to find a decent yoga studio in Half-Moon Hollow—I wasn’t entirely sure there was a decent yoga studio in Half-Moon Hollow. But it was either take a beginner’s class in a church basement or try to stretch the knots out of my back on my own … and the last time I did that, I ended up with a puncture wound from a wrought-iron palm-tree sculpture.

Don’t ask.

I found the affidavit folded carefully on top of my purse. The narrative was scrawled in my own loopy half-cursive, half-block script. Mr. Sutherland’s statement was very similar to what actually happened, apparently omitting the part where I’d had to smack Lanky around to come to Mr. Sutherland’s aid. Whether that was an effort to prevent legal trouble for me or to protect his own pride, I had no idea. But it was harmless enough, and I signed it.

I repacked my bag, carefully checking over the room to make sure that I hadn’t left anything like my wallet or my reading glasses behind. I mapped the route to the local police department, confirmed that my phone was fully charged, and walked into the pink light of sunrise. I blinked rapidly, sliding classic Ray-Bans over the bridge of my nose. That was one thing I was going to have to get used to while working with vampires, the shock of daylight.

The sun rose slowly over the horizon, framing a rusty, rounded old pickup at the edge of the parking lot in just the right amount of golden, nostalgic light. My fingers itched for my camera, the lovely little high-powered Canon I’d used while working in Chicago. But, like the rest of my equipment, it had been sold off to keep the creditors at bay.

Three years before, I’d borrowed twenty-five thousand dollars from my parents to buy a share in my then-boss’s photography studio. While moonlighting as a waitress, I’d worked as an assistant and general peon to Anthony Figueroa for more than a year. He was known for edgy wedding photography, wild angles, sexy shots of the bride and groom getting frisky in their wedding attire, shooting the bride underwater in a copy of her gown. Brash, eccentric, and occasionally downright rude, Anthony saw himself as the bride’s last chance to rebel in an otherwise cookie-cutter affair planned by her mother. The business was growing by leaps and bounds, and my parents were impressed enough to loan me the money to buy into the studio.

Partnership with Anthony was supposed to give me time to shoot what he called my “artsy-fartsy” photos of the city I loved so much. But during my brief tenure as a professional photographer, I spent most of my time shooting stock photos for online services. If a bakery needed professional-quality photos of a cupcake for an ad but couldn’t afford a photo shoot, they could go online and buy a stock photo from an online broker. Once Anthony saw how much the services were willing to pay and how quickly I could crank the photos out, I spent weeks painstakingly lighting and shooting an apple, a stapler, women in various stages of frazzled distress. I think those were either for male-escort ads or housekeeping services. I never figured out which.

The monotony, the void of creativity, sort of sucked the fun out of photography for me. I never left the studio. I had to follow prescribed rules about resolution, composition, and color saturation. And when I took my usual long walks down to the river, I’d line up a shot of bridge architecture or a family laughing, and I’d be so worried about aperture and film speed that I’d lose the shot.

And then, in his creative wisdom, Anthony removed portions of a hundred-year-old window casing in St. Thomas Church to attach his precious strobe flashes, making it look as though the bride was caught in a Gothic lightning storm. The window casing was permanently damaged, and the studio was sued into bankruptcy by the bride’s family, the church, the local historical society, and the Catholic League. Also, we may have been excommunicated.

My investment capital, the equipment, our building—everything was liquidated to pay off our debts. So I owned 7 percent of exactly jack squat, but I owed my parents 5-percent interest on the loan. Anthony’s reputation, which was already hanging by a thread thanks to his scorched-earth policy when it came to other photographers, was ruined, as was mine by association. With no job prospects and the loan debt hanging over my head, my parents demanded that I “stop all of the foolishness and get a real job,” which meant working for the firm.

Let this be a lesson to you, kids. Don’t borrow money from your parents. It gets ugly.

Now I was left with my little portfolio of “artsy-fartsy” photos and my old first-generation digital camera. If my Canon had been a Porsche, my old camera was more along the lines of a Toyota Tercel. But I always kept it with me, buried in the bottom of my shoulder bag, in case the mood struck.

I took the old Nikon out of my bag, lined up the shot, and forced myself to forget exposure times or saturation. I just took a quick breath and snapped. I didn’t even bother checking the screen for the result. I just loaded my bags into the back of the car, noting that Mr. Sutherland’s luggage was already stacked neatly in the rack. I checked the cubby door and noted that the special “occupied” tag had been switched on. Like those handy little tabs on airplane lavatory doors, it could only be engaged from inside. It was meant to keep humans from opening the light-tight cubbies during the day, exposing the vampires to dangerous rays. In my case, there was the added bonus of knowing that I wasn’t driving off without my client.

After dropping the report off at the police department, I plugged that night’s approved motel’s address into my phone and prepared to drive at least eight hundred miles to make up for time we lost the night before. According to his calculations, it would take me three full days to drive the twenty-four hundred miles from his home to mine and give him a few hours to spare before his midnight deadline. I would be allowed a short break just before sunset to rest and eat, and then we would drive until eight or so. I was allowed exactly ten hours of “off time” per night, and we were expected to be on the road within an hour of sunrise.

Iris was convinced that people drove more safely during the day. And no one would suspect a vampire of driving around during the day in what looked like a badass soccer-mom vehicle.

Given Mr. Sutherland’s parking-lot experience, I guessed I couldn’t blame him for being a little paranoid. In 1999, this whole public vampirism thing left a lot of humans unsure of our place in the food chain, which could lead to ugly confrontations.

It was as if vampires had walked into the proverbial room, and the entire world stopped talking at once. The first year “postvampire” was a pretty dark chapter in terms of our collective history. The World Council for the Equal Treatment of the Undead formed to “formally interact with human governments and facilitate open, cordial communication.” In other words, they busted their way into the homes of presidents, prime ministers, and dictators around the world and told them, “Quit killing us off for giggles, or prepare for an ass whipping of biblical proportions.”

The American government issued mandatory after-dark curfews out of fear that vampires would retaliate en masse. So humans found ways to track vampires to their sleeping places during the day, making daytime vampire security a sought-after, ridiculously overpriced service.

Enter Iris Scanlon and her business, Beeline, a daytime concierge service for vampires. Beeline was part special-event coordinator, part concierge service, part personal organizer. Iris took care of all of the little details that vampires couldn’t see to without bursting into cinders or just didn’t want to deal with themselves. Picking up dry-cleaning, filing government paperwork, delivering blood, receiving deliveries of household items. The transport service was an experimental venture, and so far, it didn’t seem likely that Iris was going to be adding it to the menu of regular Beeline services.

I drove hypercarefully through the northeast corner of Oregon to Idaho, driving two miles under the limit and steering as if I was performing neurosurgery. But the drive was a productive one. I learned the words to three Nickelback songs, which meant that I could eventually make fun of three more Nickelback songs. I caught up on The Help, an audio book I’d been saving for a special occasion. My cell phone rang frequently, and I ignored it.

I drove without thinking, without planning. I just enjoyed the scenery and the music and the blissful solitude. I ate gummy worms and trail mix. I went through several of the playlists on the iPod I’d plugged into the stereo system. I loved creating a mood-setting list for every occasion, everything from the “You’ve Been Up for Far Too Long List,” which included a lot of peppy ’80s music, to the “Work the Pole List,” which I’d rather not go into.

I may or may not have made several stops along the way to take pictures of the mountains and a broken-down drive-in movie theater in the middle of nowhere. Yes, it was a calculated risk, but I had to enjoy something about this trip. I could feel my joints loosening when I held the camera. The pictures weren’t particularly good, certainly not good enough to include in my photo journal. I preferred to take shots with some people in them, but for now, it was a good workout, so to speak.

Other than spilling coffee down the front of my blouse, a minor injury sustained while locking a bathroom stall, and a brief run-in with an RV driver who didn’t seem to recognize “no passing” zones, the day went off without a hitch.

Just after sunset, as we left Idaho, I heard bumping around in the cubby. I pulled over on the lonely stretch of I-90 with my emergency flashers blinking and pulled out the warmed packet of blood that Mr. Sutherland had requested.

The evening was pleasant and mild. The blacktop radiated heat against my legs as I made my way around the car. There was no road noise, just the chirp of crickets and the wind over drying grass. I opened the back hatch of the car, just as the cubby door swung up.

Mr. Sutherland sat up as if he was on a hinge, in one smooth upward motion. His three-piece suit—dark charcoal gray with a faint pinstripe—was perfectly pressed. The only thing mussed about him was his hair, arranged in that flawlessly tousled, “recently laid” arrangement. The suit made me think of that Gary Oldman Dracula movie, which made me think of Keanu Reeves’s English accent, which made me giggle.

Hungry vampires were irritable vampires, so I choked it back, making an indelicate snorting noise, as I thrust the blood packet toward him. He took it, eyebrow raised at my display, and drained it immediately.

“Another?” I asked.

He shook his head, watching me carefully. “You don’t have to spoon-feed me. I’m not a newborn.”

“Good morning to you, too, sir,” I retorted with a little curtsey.

He gracefully slid out of the vehicle, straightening his cuffs, and stood over me. He scanned me from head to toe, that same frustrated expression clouding his eyes. His mouth bowed south. “You do realize that you’re supposed to drink the coffee, not bathe in it, yes?”

I glanced down. How did he know I’d dumped half a cup of coffee into my cleavage? I’d changed my stained blouse hours before on one of my scheduled bathroom stops. I sniffed my shirt and only detected the slightest scent of coffee, which was coming from … my bra. He was smelling my bra. Well, that was gross.

“Caffeine tightens the pores,” I retorted, rounding the car. “Are you planning to ride shotgun, or—” I watched as Mr. Sutherland slid into the backseat. “OK, then.”

He opened his atlas and checked our progress against the map. He frowned. Without looking up, he asked, “Did you submit the police report this morning?”

“Yes. That was a creepily accurate forgery of my handwriting, by the way.”

He ignored the compliment-slash-jibe. “Did you contact Miss Scanlon and let her know about our difficulties? Did she make arrangements for our travel expenses?”

I cleared my throat and nodded. “Mm-hmm.”

I glanced down at my phone, noting that while we were standing outside, I’d received another call from my mother. I grumbled, shoving it into my purse, and then turned the keys in the ignition.

“Miss Puckett.”

I looked up into the rearview mirror to see blue eyes glaring at me. I moved to put the car into gear, and the frown deepened.

His velvety voice was more insistent—and slightly pissed at being ignored. “Miss Puckett.”

I shoved the gearshift back into park. When I turned to face him, I was smiling so sweetly I feared my cheeks would crack. “Yes?”

He had his arm stretched across the backseat in a casual, “Nice to finally meet you, Mr. Bond” supervillain pose. The top of his light blue shirt was unbuttoned, revealing the perfectly symmetrical hollow of his throat. A sudden, compulsive urge to lick that narrow expanse of skin, framed by slender cords of muscle, overwhelmed my brain, and I had to grip the steering wheel to keep myself in the front seat.

Did they make Adam’s apple porn? Was that a thing? Would I be scarred for life if I Googled it? And if I couldn’t find any pictures, could I take my own? My camera was in the bottom of my bag—

And then I realized that I was staring at Mr. Sutherland’s throat cleavage … and he was clearly aware of this. I could tell by the curious lift of his eyebrow. My cheeks flamed, a rush of blood beneath my skin that shocked as much as it shamed. How could a stare—well, let’s be honest, it was a glare—be enough to make my panties spontaneously combust?

I cleared my throat, breaking contact with the blue orbs of sexy evil. “Is there some reason I shouldn’t be starting the car right now?”

He let his eyes narrow at the offending piece of paper on my dashboard.

I snatched it up. “What, this?”

His lip curled back into a grimace. “Yes, Miss Puckett. What is that?”

“That would be a hamburger wrapper.”

“Yes,” he purred. “And what do we know about hamburger wrappers?”

“Their contents are meaty and delicious?”

His lips twitched, as if he wanted to laugh but couldn’t bring himself to do it. “Litter, Miss Puckett. The car is to be free of litter.”

“Right, sorry,” I said, stuffing the offending paper into a paper sack. “Vampires have an aversion to human food, right? It smells spoiled to you?”

“No, I dislike the idea of riding around with your lunch leftovers for the rest of the evening.” He sniffed. I started the car and pulled onto the shoulder. He nodded slightly. “But yes, vampires lack the enzymes to digest solids, so our bodies instinctively reject human food. The smell is unappetizing. And if we ate so much as a slice of bread, violent vomiting would follow.”

“Well, that’s unfortunate, given our next stop.”

I CAN SEE YOUR HEADLIGHTS

4

Pete’s Diner was bright and cheerfully decorated in insistently nostalgic aquas and pinks. I sat at the booth, considering my menu options, while Mr. Sutherland glowered at our general surroundings. A less mature part of myself wanted to order something really pungent, such as olive loaf and onion rings. But I chose considerately, turkey on whole wheat and an iced tea.

Mr. Sutherland looked as out of place as I did when I visited my parents’ law firm. He ordered a coffee so he wouldn’t seem conspicuous and sat ramrod-straight against the cozy booth seat. He was staring me down, measuring me, recording little details, and he meticulously polished his silverware with his napkin. I did my best not to fidget or make origami out of the straw wrappers.

“I know that we haven’t had an ideal travel experience so far,” I admitted in an effort to break the silence. “Honestly, I’m not trying to annoy you. At this point, all I can promise is that I’m not intentionally trying to do the things that make you angry … anymore.”

“I am overwhelmed in the face of your generosity.” From the kitchen, I heard the hiss of onions hitting the grill. Mr. Sutherland shuddered as the sharp smell rippled through the air, adding another layer to the symphony of scents already hanging over the diner.

“You’re the one who scheduled my meal breaks,” I reminded him without my usual sarcasm. “It’s not my fault you did it by location instead of time.”

“Yes, but I thought we would be farther along the road by now. I assumed that you would eat dinner before I woke,” he said, eyeing a passing tray full of chili specials as if the secret ingredient was ebola virus.

“Well, we would be running on time if I hadn’t had to stop at the police station this morning. Contingencies, Mr. Sutherland. They happen.”

“Hmmph.” He stirred the coffee, for lack of something to do with his hands, and muttered something like “With you, they do.”

Mr. Sutherland had been beyond twitchy from the moment we walked into the diner. He was uncomfortable and not just in the “I’m around a large group of humans for the first time in decades” sort of way. The presence of each additional person seemed to cause him pain.

“You didn’t have to come in here with me,” I said, trying to keep my tone kind. “You could have waited outside, stretched your legs a bit. It can’t be comfortable being cooped up in that cubby.”

He closed his eyes as a family of five passed by, their rambunctious teens hip-checking and elbowing one another for prime booth space. While his eyes were closed, I whipped out my camera and pulled off a few quick shots of the family being generally rowdy and obnoxious to one another. In the frame, they looked loving, happy, comfortable together. It made my heart ache a little.

And since Mr. Sutherland’s eyes were still closed, his lashes resting on his high cheekbones, I took a few shots of him, too.

I had my reasons.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

“I’ll be fine in a few minutes. It’s just an adjustment. Besides, the last time we separated, we were set upon by rednecks.”

“Are you afraid for my safety or yours?” I asked, smirking at him.

“I’m not sure. I do hope Miss Scanlon wasn’t too upset about the trouble last night,” he said, watching me carefully. “I would hate for the incident to reflect poorly on your performance record.”

“Of course, she wasn’t,” I lied smoothly, as if butter wouldn’t melt in my no-good, deceitful mouth. “She understands that the unexpected can happen. I have some cash, and I’m going to use a company credit card for our expenses.”

“Oh, thank heavens,” he deadpanned as my turkey sandwich and spicy fries were delivered to the table. “I would hate for you to go without a feast like that.”

“Have you ever had spicy peanut-oil fries?”

“They were a bit outside of my time frame.”

I dragged one of the beautiful golden fries through a pool of ketchup with a flourish and popped it into my mouth. “Well, don’t knock them until you’ve tried them.”

He eyed my plate. “I have mentioned the vomiting issue, yes?”

“Yes, which is an awfully nice image while I’m eating, so thank you,” I muttered, chewing carefully to avoid talking with my mouth full. “So tell me about yourself. When exactly is your ‘time frame’?”

“Have you known many vampires, Miss Puckett?” he asked, leaning forward a bit.

“No.”

“Then I will excuse you, because you clearly don’t know how rude it is to ask a vampire how old he is.”

“You brought it up. I’m just trying to make conversation,” I said, shrugging. “Is it OK if I guess?”

He gave me a withering glare.

“Do you have any fun?” I asked, tilting my head and frowning at him. “Ever?”

“I’m sorry, but am I to understand that I’m serving as your entertainment?” He sniffed, those blue eyes narrowing at me.

“Not at the moment,” I said, grinning. “Come on, humor me. You’ve still got the hint of a British accent, so I’m guessing you were born there. You have very formal manners. Your clothes are well made and old-fashioned. So … either you’re used to wealth or you’re trying to make up for something you were missing in life. I haven’t seen your car, so I don’t know if that’s an insecurity that’s universally applied,” I admitted. “Your house is orderly, nearly compulsively so. You have a bit of contempt for, well, everyone around you. I’m guessing … Revolutionary War. You fought for the British, which explains so much about your personality. You’re still a little bitter about it.”

His jaw dropped, and for a beautiful moment, he actually looked discomposed. “You couldn’t possibly have guessed that. Did Miss Scanlon give you a dossier on me?”

I let him hang. I enjoyed this moment of him seeing me as mysterious and knowledgeable, something more than just the person who drove him crazy with fast-food litter. But then I caved.

I giggled. “You have your military insignia displayed on your mantel. That, combined with the accent and the cleanliness, let me make an educated guess.”

“I have to say, I am impressed.”

“I’m a people watcher.” I shrugged. “It’s just situational awareness, which is the one area in which I scored in the top percentiles in those personality tests. My high-school career-aptitude results recommended that I go into personal security or rodeo clowning, which my brother had a field day with, by the way. I got floppy red shoes as a graduation gift.”

“Please demonstrate.”

“I didn’t bring the shoes with me.” I twisted my face into a fake frown.

Mr. Sutherland huffed, exasperated. “Your parlor trick, Miss Puckett. Please demonstrate your technique.”

I chuckled, biting into my sandwich. This used to be my dad’s favorite game. When we were waiting at a restaurant or running errands, he’d pick somebody and ask me to tell him their story. Where they were from, what they were doing at the grocery store, who they had to go home to. The stories entertained Daddy, but watching people helped me pick up the right cues, the little things that made for great photos. It was a game that helped me wriggle out of some of the disastrous scenarios I found myself in, long after Daddy lost interest in playing.

I scanned the dining room and jerked my chin toward a man sitting at the counter. “Fine. You see the guy over there? He’s on his way home to his wife after a week of doing incredibly irresponsible stuff with his buddies. Fishing, boating, something like that. He knows she’s going to be mad at him about something, and he’s not entirely sure he wants to drive the rest of the way home.”

“How can you tell?”

“He’s twisting his wedding ring around his finger as he bobs his knee at a hundred miles an hour. We’re in the heart of fly-fishing country. He’s sunburned something awful, except right around the eyes, probably from fishing or boating with sunglasses on. A woman would remind her husband to put on sunscreen, whereas a bunch of other guys wouldn’t care. And he’s been looking at his cell phone as if he thinks it’s going to bite him. He’s waiting for her to call and ask where he is and why the hell he isn’t home yet.”

“You’re just guessing,” he said, smirking derisively.

“It’s all just guessing. That doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”

As if on cue, the cell phone rang, and the man started stuttering apologies and “Now, honey’s.” I beamed at Mr. Sutherland and popped another fry into my mouth.

“You’re really very good at that,” he said, equally confused and awed.

“Try not to sound so amazed,” I chided. “I do have some skill sets.”

“Yes, cage fighting and impeccable deductive reasoning.”

“I’ve never been in a cage. Where are you getting a cage?” I laughed.

He smirked at me, and I could just make out a hint of a dimple in his cheek. “It’s far more interesting in my head if there’s a cage.”

“That’s a psychological clue that I’m not willing to explore.” I took a bite of my sandwich and took a moment to appreciate the ambrosial combination of turkey, melted cheese, and bacon. “So, Collin Sutherland, Revolutionary War soldier,” I said, lowering my voice so the patrons at the other tables didn’t hear. “You’re a vampire. Why are you afraid to fly?”

“Did no one ever teach you how to make polite conversation?” he grumbled, stirring the coffee he was using as a “blending-in” prop.

“You would be so bored with me right now if someone had.”

“Have you ever read the statistics regarding accidents in air travel?” he asked.

“Yes, they’re lower than the rates of accidents while driving. And you’re pretty much indestructible, as long as you fly at night.”

He frowned. “Well, once one has survived one plane crash, tempting fate again seems ill advised.”

“You’ve survived a plane crash?”

“In the 1940s, when air travel for passengers was very new,” he said. “Kicking your way out of a crumpled fuselage rather ruins the thrill of vacationing.”

“And you never tried flying again?”

“I haven’t left the area immediately surrounding my house since 1948.”

I spluttered, “H-how? Wh-why?”

“Delivery services. An understanding undead business manager who was willing to handle many of life’s little details for me. Friends who were willing to bring human donors to the house. And there’s a ready supply of wildlife in the area if I wanted to vary my diet.”

“But how do you make a living?”

“Until my withdrawal from society, I made my living in the antiques business.”

“You had a store?”

“It was a speculative venture,” he said, his tone hedging.

“The fact that you don’t seem to want to explain that cryptic remark is going to make me ask you lots more questions,” I promised him.

He sighed and explained, “Say I was sitting in a tavern, and I just happened to sense that a fellow’s brother was about to gamble the family fortune away or that a man’s favorite daughter was about to elope with the help, causing a disastrous scandal. If I just happened to befriend that fellow and be there for him when his tragedy struck, offering my discreet monetary help in return for a few family knickknacks, who would be the wiser? Of course, I offered a reduced price for those knickknacks, and the families were so grateful for aid in their times of distress that they didn’t question my offer.”

“But that’s so mercenary!”

“On the contrary, the families I did business with desperately needed the money I offered them. I was helping them.”

“You were helping yourself!”

“I was using the tools I was provided with to make my way in the world. I was raised in a fine house with carefully chosen furnishings. And although I didn’t stand to inherit any of it, I was taught their history, their value. I can’t be faulted for using that knowledge.”

“And the fact that you believe that is what is so very troubling.”

Eyebrows raised, I glanced at the case securely wedged against his side in the booth. That certainly changed my guesses about the case’s contents. Crown jewels? Priceless art? Ancient coins?

That would be sort of exciting, to know that I was helping complete some Council project or bringing scary-ass Ophelia, the forever-teenage head of the local Council branch, her personal art collection. Maybe that would make her more lenient when I inevitably ran afoul of the local vampires.

“Why live out in the middle of nowhere?” I asked.

“I’ve never been much of a joiner. And as technology has improved, I’ve felt less and less alone. Thanks to the telephone, color television, the Internet, I’ve been able to keep up with current events, terminology. I’m not left entirely out of the loop.”

“Why haven’t you left your house in so long? Is it because you were traumatized in the crash? Do you have PTSD?”

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. That was an interesting change in role. “Not exactly.”

The tone of his voice didn’t invite further questions, so in the interest of the progress we’d made so far, I chose to shut up. He glanced down, as if he could see my carefully bandaged hand through the table, despite the fact that I’d kept it folded in my lap and out of his sight. It seemed rude, otherwise, like waving a Twinkie in front of someone on Atkins.

“What’s happened to your hand?” he asked. “Why are you being so careful with it?”

“Nothing,” I said, tucking the injured hand under my jeans-clad leg.

His lips twitched in disapproval as he leaned forward, his voice sultry and persuasive. And I had to clamp my thighs together, because that was just unfair. “Miss Puckett, do you honestly think I can’t sense fresh blood? Even in an environment as foul as this, I can smell it on you. Frankly, its pleasant distraction is the only thing keeping me from losing my mind in this crowded restaurant. Now, be a good girl and show me your hand.”

“Are you trying to hypnotize me?” I asked, my eye narrowed. “Vampires can do that, right? Control people like puppets? Are you going to make me cluck like a chicken in this foul, crowded restaurant?”

For the first time, he gave me a true, sincere smile. It was as if the clouds parted, the room lit up, and I was able to see what Mr. Sutherland looked like when he was human. Well, human and in a really good mood.

“No, I don’t have that particular gift. I am merely concerned about any tendencies you may have to injure yourself while I’m asleep. Will I wake up tomorrow night to find you have knocked yourself unconscious against the steering wheel and veered into a river?”

“That won’t happen,” I grumbled. “Again.”

His jaw dropped.

“I’m kidding!” I exclaimed, laughing as I held up my hand. “I caught my fingertip in the lock of a bathroom stall. It sort of snipped the tiniest bit of the fingertip off.”

“That cannot possibly be true.”

I held the finger up for his inspection. “There’s a reason we carry a suitcase-sized first-aid kit in the backseat. I manage to injure myself in increasingly inventive ways. I’ve been burned by a peanut salesman with bad aim at a Cubs game. I got a jellyfish stuck in my bikini top in Jamaica, which required some interesting ointment placement. Once my fian—a friend was opening a bottle of champagne in the next room, and the cork ricocheted around a corner, off the ceiling, and hit me right in the eye. I had a shiner for a week. My neighbor slipped brochures for a women’s shelter under my door.”

“You’re exaggerating,” he said.

“Would you like me to show you the scars?”

He grinned. “Where exactly are these scars?”

Was I suffering from a French-fry-induced high, or was Mr. Sutherland flirting with me?

I grinned cheekily, trailing my (uninjured) fingertips along the buttons of my blouse, as if I was considering loosening them. His blue eyes tracked the motion of my hand, up and down, up and down. I stopped abruptly, and he shook his head, as if clearing it from some fog.

“On second thought, a lady needs to keep a bit of mystery about her,” I said, lifting my sandwich from the plate and taking a bite.

Mr. Sutherland seemed deflated at my sudden change in course, which was a balm for my ego. He sighed, toying with a packet of Splenda. “Oh, trust me, Miss Puckett, you are an enigma.”

We came so close to having a pleasant evening. Mr. Sutherland even managed to restrain his comments when I ordered a slice of lemon meringue pie, although I’m sure it smelled awful to him. I stopped badgering him with questions and made light conversation about our schedule for the next night. We walked out of the diner, and he actually opened the door for me with a little smile on his face.

“Isn’t that heavy to cart around with you everywhere we go?” I asked, nudging the silver briefcase with my fingers.

He gently spanked my hand away. “What did we say about touching the case?”

“Did we say, ‘If you smack my hand again, I will wedgie you until your underwear comes up over your head’?”

He gave me an arch look.

“I would try,” I muttered.

I’d parked on the far side of the parking lot, beyond the truckers’ area, because I wanted to give us some space if Mr. Sutherland needed to do something vampire-y. Also, the last thing I needed to do was ding some tourist’s car. But as we walked to the car, I could see from a distance that was the least of my concerns. There was something on the hood. Weird, circular shapes with—

“Oh, for the love of Pete!” I cried.

Someone had spray-painted a pair of neon pink breasts on the hood of the car. Big, round, obscenely realistic breasts that were most likely visible from space. I glanced around the parking lot and saw that ours was not the only vehicle to receive a makeover. A Ryder moving truck, a tractor-trailer, and a minivan were all decorated with twin sets of their very own. I noticed that each was parked in a dimly lit area of the lot, giving the vandals the cover of darkness. I scanned the lot for signs of the kids—please, Lord, let this be the work of teenagers and not grown men—but couldn’t see so much as a mist of spray paint. The phantom graffiti artists were long gone.

“Fuck a duck!” I exclaimed.

“Language,” Mr. Sutherland admonished weakly. He was stricken, trying like hell, but failing, to avoid looking at the “art.” “Was it like this before we went into the diner?”

“No, I would have remembered our car having boobs,” I said, staring down at the Batmobile’s generous triple-Z cups. We were transfixed, caught in the thrall of trompe l’oeil cleavage. That was a first for me.

Several awkward, silent moments passed. As I snapped shots of the hood for Iris’s insurance agent—and Mr. Sutherland’s face, for posterity—I considered several options. Calling Iris and telling her she would need to send the National Guard to retrieve Mr. Sutherland. Going back into the diner to inquire whether they served hard liquor. Attempting to paint over the boobs with black nail polish.

Hey, it worked when I scratched my mom’s car in high school.

I realized that Mr. Sutherland had moved on from staring at the car to watching me intently. “Are you waiting for me to know what to do here? Because this was not covered during my orientation.”

“Should we call the police and report this?”

“Do you really want to file another police report? That will just slow us down that much more. We’re running just shy of ‘on time’ as it is.”

“You make a good point.” He nodded. “We’ll just tell Miss Scanlon to add the cost of repainting the car to my bill.”

“Really?” I asked, lifting a brow. “That’s very nice of you.”

“Contingencies, Miss Puckett. They happen,” he said, echoing my words earlier. “Particularly when you’re around. But you shouldn’t be held responsible for the actions of mammary-minded juvenile delinquents.”

I searched his face for some hint of derision or deception. I found none, just unearthly blue eyes and an unsettling amount of sincerity. He really wasn’t angry or annoyed with me. He was incredibly embarrassed, however, and trying very hard not to look me directly in the eye.

Men, vampire or otherwise, were so strange when it came to boobs.

“Perhaps we can paint over the, er, additions with black paint so it’s less noticeable.”

“I thought about it, but adding another layer might make it harder for the professionals to fix. I’ll call Iris in the morning and ask her if we have some sort of vandalism roadside-assistance plan,” I said. “Let’s just get on the road, shall we?”

I reached into the car and popped the hood. As I propped it back over the windshield, Mr. Sutherland frowned. “I don’t think this is the best way to keep other drivers from seeing them, Miss Puckett, unless you plan to cut eyeholes in the hood.”

“Funny.” I snorted. “I just want to make sure our friendly neighborhood car decorators didn’t diddle with my engine.”

“Diddle?”

“I would use the f-word again, but cursing seems to upset you,” I said, peering down at the gleaming inner works of the car.

“Isn’t this just a bit paranoid?”

“It might be, if I hadn’t been stranded outside a mall in Poughkeepsie once, believing my car was completely dead, only to find out that some smartass had taken advantage of a faulty outside hood latch and unscrewed my distributor cap. The tow-truck guy laughed his ass off at me. So now, I just like to make sure everything’s in order.”

Mr. Sutherland peered over my shoulder. “Do you know what you’re looking at?”

I cut my eyes at him. “Would you ask a man that same question?”

“Yes, because I have no clue what I’m looking at.” He looked affronted, which made me laugh, despite the situation. “Why would said smartass do something like that?” he asked as I checked the obvious spots, the spark plugs, the alternator, the battery cables.

“I think I was being set up for a mugging in Poughkeepsie, but the tow truck got there before anything could happen. But in this case, I don’t know—just in case the automotive boobs weren’t demoralizing enough?”

I gently nudged his hands out of the way before snapping the hood shut. Remembering the incident with the car door, he flexed his healed fingers. “Are you demoralized?”

“Are you kidding?” I scoffed. “This is just Tuesday for me.”

“But it’s Thursday.”

“It’s an expression.”

“How do you know about engines?” he asked.

“I helped crew a yacht in the Caribbean one summer in college. I was friends with the ship’s mechanic, and he taught me the basics. It comes in handy when you travel as much as I do.”

“What did you do on the crew?”

“General dogsbody. I ran lines, cleaned cabins, cooked on occasion. The yacht belonged to my very well-off roommate’s dad, so he was pretty easy on us, on the rare occasions he was actually on the boat. It was one of the best summers of my life.”

It was also the precursor to my dropping out of school after just one year. It turned out that returning for school two months into the semester was frowned upon in some academic circles. Who knew?

I cleaned my hands with some Wet Wipes as he climbed into the backseat. Sliding into the driver’s seat, I turned toward him. “Look, we’re riding around in a car with tits. I think normal social constraints have gone out the window. Can you just call me by my first name? And sit up front?”

He was silent while he mulled it over.

“You be nice, or I’m going to set the station to Radio Disney and leave it there,” I warned him.

“Fine.” He climbed over the seat, unwilling to get out of the car, I supposed, just in case the gathering crowd had torches and pitchforks handy.

“Could you take off the jacket and relax a little?” I asked, reaching down to silence another of Jason’s calls on my phone.

“Don’t push it,” he said, adding, “Miranda.”

Despite myself—and the enormous jugs on my hood—I smiled as we pulled out of the parking lot and onto the highway.

LAID BARE … AND NOT IN THE FUN WAY

5

Collin—whom I was calling by his first name without explicit permission—was surprisingly easy to talk to when he didn’t have that enormous stick up his ass. I won’t say that we had a life-altering, soul-baring exchange, but he managed not to lecture me when I left a soda cap in the console. And I didn’t say a thing when he insisted on keeping the radio on the classical station. I considered that progress.

He was still as intimidating as ever, with the whole leisurely predator thing, lounging on the front seat in perfect, unwrinkled elegance while I drove. But he was attempting to make conversation, even if it was because he wanted to hear more of my embarrassing history.

“Tell me something,” he said. “You’re only twenty-three human years old?”

“I’ll be twenty-seven in March, but thank you.”

“Why does your family allow you to drift about the country in this fashion?” he asked.

I laughed. “They hardly allow me to do anything.”

“Then how are you supported?”

I snorted. That was the million-dollar question. I’d moved out of my apartment with Jason after the Lisa fiasco and was living with my parents again. I was still technically in the firm’s employ, but even with the continual disasters we were suffering, I found that working for Iris was much more pleasant. I was more entertained on the road than in months at Puckett and Puckett. And that included the time one of my dad’s clients tried to use an iguana as a character witness in a divorce trial.

There were too many strings attached to my parents’ support, and most of those strings had hooks on them. I’d known I was making a mistake, borrowing the money from them. After I dropped out, I was working two or three jobs to keep my head above water—almost all of which ended in disaster. But when the studio deal presented itself, the temptation to be “legitimate” in my parents’ eyes was too great. I wanted to do something that they would consider respectable, that didn’t involve working for them. I’d wanted what I wanted, right away, instead of waiting until I had enough credit to get a bank loan. So I took the easy way out. I wouldn’t make that mistake again.

It’s not that I didn’t appreciate what they’d done. And I understood that paying them back was the moral, responsible thing to do. Accepting that money meant losing my right to make decisions for myself, to live without my parents scrutinizing every decision I made. Every time I did something my parents didn’t approve of, there was a comment about “all they’d done for me.” If I bought something frivolous, my dad reminded me of the balance due on the loan. Being with Jason had shielded me from all of that temporarily. Was I ready to go back to living without that protection?

And why was that the first thought I’d devoted to Jason all day?

“Are we going to talk about you anytime soon?” I asked, clearly stalling. “I’d like to know more about this plane-crash thing.”

“It’s a simple question, Miranda.”

“OK, but we’re coming back to you,” I promised him.

“Miranda.”

I was enjoying the way he said my name just a little too much. I shook it off, waving the thrall of his voice away like smoke rings drifting around my head. There was no way I was going to admit to him that I worked for my mommy and daddy, so I hedged. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I work for a living. I am, in fact, working right now.”

Unfazed by my snippy tone, he continued. “Miss Scanlon mentioned that you were a recent hire. What did you do before?”

“Iris didn’t mention?” I asked, narrowing my eyes at him. Was this some sort of conversation setup? Had he become so irritated over the painted-boobs thing that he’d decided to make me confess all of my professional dumbass-ery? Was he trying to prove something? Because I was not above tossing that cup of leftover coffee into his face.

Eyeing me carefully, he took the cup out of the console, opened the window, and dumped the coffee. He sealed the foam cup in the little trash bag he’d insisted on after the Great Hamburger Wrapper Scandal. He looked really pleased with himself, smirking and crossing his arms over his chest. I arched my eyebrows. I scowled at him. How did he know? And why did he seem to think of coffee disposal as a personal triumph?

“I’m only asking because I’m curious,” he assured me, holding up his hands defensively. “Honestly, beyond your penchant for violence and preference for nutritionally bankrupt food, I know very little about you.”

“I did lots of things,” I said, vaguely … and realized that made my history sound far more porn-ish than it was.

“What was your last job before this one?”

“Look, I told you I crewed a yacht that summer? It hit a commercial fishing boat and sank—not when I was at the wheel, thank you very much. I worked at a camp for troubled kids, and I was actually pretty good at it. But the kitchen staff nearly killed some of the kids with food poisoning, and the camp was shut down. I was working to get my masseuse license through an on-the-job training program, but the cops closed the spa down because my coworker got handsy with a health inspector in the wrong anatomical area … She was a little high at the time.”

Collin’s eyes grew wide. His mouth pinched itself together at the corners.

“Go ahead and laugh.” I sighed.

A hearty, braying cackle burst from his chest, doubling him over and startling me. My eyes went wide as he howled with laughter, clutching his sides as if he was using muscles that hadn’t worked in years. It might have irritated the hell out of me, except that he looked so damn pretty when he did it. He continued to snicker until slightly pink tears ran down his cheeks. He wiped at them.

I grumbled. “I left college, let’s say, ‘prematurely.’ It wasn’t a good fit for me, sitting in the same classrooms with the same people, day after day. I liked ‘drifting about the country,’ as you called it. I liked not knowing what I was going to do or who I was going to meet. I liked learning new skills. Every day should be an adventure, in my book, a whole new life to be lived. The karmic payoff to this ‘shiftless nomadic existence that breaks my parents’ hearts’ is that every time I think I find something I’m good at, it blows up in my face.”

“I am suddenly very, very afraid.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I don’t usually take bystanders down with me.” I added reluctantly, “Except for that one time with Morlock the Magician. Though, to be fair, he did tell me to coat the dove with glitter spray. It’s not my fault he bought a highly flammable discount brand.”

“That does not make me feel any better, no,” he said, shaking his head. “Highly flammable?”

“The bird got spooked during the Ring of Fire trick, then flew right at Morlock. Flaming bird, lots of stage makeup and hair spray. It took a whole fire extinguisher, and Morlock still had some third-degree burns.”

“And how did you escape this inferno?”

“The bird always liked Morlock better than me,” I said.

“You know, the more you talk, the less secure I feel.”

“I can promise not to try to kill you,” I offered.

“Thank you.”

Hearing about my past misfortunes amused—but frightened—Collin to no end. It was sort of like telling a small child a ghost story. He wanted to be scared, even though he knew he was better off not knowing about my past. But I loved seeing that easy smile on his face, so I just kept sharing. Three hours and several spectacular firing stories later, we arrived at the Country Inn, the little roadside “boutique hotel” where Collin had booked us rooms.

“This does not look like the photos on the travel Web site,” he said.

I looked up the hotel on my phone, finding the site that displayed pictures of the Country Inn … from at least thirty years before. It was no longer “clean, comfortable, and convenient” as advertised. It was convenient because the highway practically ran through the parking lot. That was all the place had going for it. I think the owner called it a boutique hotel because there was a sex-toy shop right next door. The building had that same desperate, beaten look as our motel from the night before. The same rust stains. The same “Truckers Welcome” sign.

“We could keep going,” I suggested.

“No, I need a break from the car. And you need your rest. I can tell you’re getting tired. Frankly, with your background, I worry about your reflexes under normal, nonfatigued circumstances.”

“Nice. Your turn talking tomorrow night, got it? There have to be some embarrassing incidents from your colonial days. A pantaloons malfunction, something.”

“You’ve been very generous with your history,” he conceded.

“That’s not an answer,” I retorted. “Are you coming in with me?”

“After the diner, I think I’ll stay out in the car,” he said.

I walked into the motel office and did a mental “Run-down Motel Requirement” checklist. Rattling space heater? Check. Dust-covered plastic houseplant? Check. Credit-card acceptance signs showing logos abandoned by the companies in the 1970s? Check.

The clerk was a middle-aged blond man in a pressed blue polo shirt and wire-rim glasses. I couldn’t figure out how he’d managed to end up behind that desk. And I don’t think he had figured it out, either. Maybe this was his second job, the one that paid for the questionable Internet online orders he didn’t want his wife to find out about?

The clerk was on the phone, apparently on hold, all the while ignoring the drunk swaying in front of the check-in desk.

“I just need a room, damn it,” the drunk slurred, sweat rolling from the thinning hair on the back of his head, dripping down his neck, and soaking into the cheap pea-green suit he was wearing. He smelled like a brewery. I was sincerely glad that he was facing away and I was out of his line-of-breath. “Got a cute little thing waitin’ outside, and I don’t want to lose her.”

Nice. This guy had clearly met his soul mate on a nearby street corner. I checked the desk for an “Hourly rates” sign and was relieved that I didn’t see one.

“Look, man, I’m sorry, the credit-card company has me on hold.”

“Just run the card again,” the drunk demanded.

The clerk cradled the receiver on his shoulder and glanced at me. “Yeah, can I help you?”

“I need two rooms, please,” I said, putting my license and credit card on the counter. I silently prayed that there was enough room on the balance to allow the charge. And that the clerk didn’t steal my identity to buy equipment for his gaming system.

He gave me an apologetic little shrug, checking my ID and placing my card next to his computer keyboard. “It will be just a minute.”

“Look, I got a little hottie out in the car, I need a room,” the drunk slurred. His bleary brown eyes settled on me and gave me a moist, crooked smile. “Hey there, cutie. You lookin’ to party? You could join us.”

“No, thanks.”

“Oh, come on, honey,” the drunk whined, leering at me. “I’d show you a real good time.”

He lurched toward me, giving me what I’m sure was supposed to be his best smile. I leaned in closer and in my most menacing voice whispered, “If you so much as breathe on me again, I will crush you like a bug, little man.”

The drunk pouted, stumbling back a few steps.

“I’m sorry, what is the problem?” the clerk asked the person on the other end of the line. He rolled his eyes and picked up a pair of wicked-looking scissors the size of hedge clippers. “All right, I’ll do that.”

The clerk hung up the phone and sighed.

“Mr. Reynolds, I have bad news for you. The card company has requested that I destroy your card.” The clerk picked up the card nearest to his hand and snipped it with a decisive snick! He ruthlessly sliced through the card, raining shards of plastic on the desk like red metallic snowflakes.

“Hey!” the drunk shouted. “What’d you do that for?”

I tried to look away, eager just to finish my transaction and get out of the office. Because as amusing as it was to see Drunky Drunkerson’s credit card snipped, I just wanted to get some sleep.

“Oh, wait,” the drunk mumbled. “Never mind.”

I glanced over and saw an unfamiliar Visa card on the counter. The bits of plastic on the counter, however, were a familiar color.

“Can I have my card back now?” the drunk asked, just as I demanded, “Where’s my card?”

“Oh, shit,” the clerk said, looking stricken.

“You destroyed my card!” I cried.

“I-I must have switched them.”

“No!” I yelled as the drunk with the useless, but intact, card ambled away. “No, no, no, no!”

“Now, look, I’m sorry, but don’t overreact.”

“Overreact?” I yelled, grabbing the stapler from the ledge of his desk. “This isn’t overreacting! Stapling your collar to the desk, that would be overreacting.”

“Put down my stapler. I don’t want to have to call the cops.”

“Call them. It will be justifiable homicide!” I snapped.

“OK, let’s just calm down. What has you so upset?”

I took a deep, shuddering breath through my nose and focused on not murdering someone who was probably a very nice person when he wasn’t destroying my only financial lifeline. “I’m upset because you just murdered my only credit card, my only form of legal tender. It will take me at least a week to get a replacement card. I am on the road for work, stuck five hundred miles from home, without a credit card. And I still need a place to sleep for the night.”

“Well, I can give you one room,” he said. “It’s the least I can do.”

“One?” I growled.

He winced, stepping back away from the desk. “Look, honey, I’ve got a boss, just like you. I can hide one room on the night audit, but two? That’s pushing it.”

I glared at him, but no amount of stink-eye would persuade him. “Fine, fine, just let me have whatever you’ve got.”

I snatched the flimsy plastic key card from his hand and swept out of the office. The clerk called after me to remember that I had to be out of the room by eleven, as if I was going to linger in the morning.

I gritted my teeth, clutching the key card until the edges bit into my palm. What the hell was I going to do? I had the fleet card for gas and maybe enough cash to keep me in food until we pulled into the Half-Moon Hollow town limits. We had enough blood to keep Collin fed for three nights. But that was it—that was the full extent of our resources, which scared the hell out of me. We wouldn’t be able to withstand any more “incidents” without help from Iris.

And if I called Iris for help, she’d probably hop on a plane to complete the drive with Collin herself. I’d be fired. I’d be lucky if I got a ride home. Actually, I’d be lucky if she didn’t tie me to the hood of the Batmobile like a deer for the drive home.

I needed more time. I hadn’t thought about Jason or the wedding or my future in Half-Moon Hollow all damn day. That wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. My brain had needed the time off from the constant whir of Jason-related worries over the past few months. But I was no closer to making a decision than when I’d departed the Hollow. I wasn’t ready to go back home yet. I needed to complete this job on time, not just because I needed the time away but also to prove to myself that I wasn’t a complete idiot.

“Is everything all right?” Collin asked as I approached the Batmobile. “You look rather distressed.”

“Sure,” I said, smiling thinly as I popped open the rear hatch. “It’s just … the hotel only had one room available.”

“Really?” he asked, scanning the parking lot, which was mostly empty.

“A lot of the rooms are being fumigated,” I told him, knowing that mentioning potential infestations was a calculated risk, given his penchant for cleanliness.

“Are you trying to take advantage of me?”

“I know, it sounds bad,” I admitted. “It’s our only option at this point.”

“Well, I don’t have to sleep,” he said. “I’ll make use of the bathing facilities and read while you sleep.”

“Oh, sure, that won’t make me uncomfortable at all.”

“I would feel better if you weren’t left unattended, anyway,” he admitted as he carefully lifted the silver case from the backseat. “Who knows what sort of trouble you would drum up out of boredom?”

“You’re still not going to tell me what’s in that case, are you?”

He frowned, an expression of honest regret, and said, “I would, but I can’t. I promised Ophelia I would keep it confidential. And because this trip is an effort to repay her for forgiving a small … indiscretion I committed years ago, I can’t afford to fail her.”

“Fine, but if I find out you’re hauling Marcellus Wallace’s soul around in that thing, I’m going to be pissed,” I griped as we carried our overnight bags into the room.

He didn’t laugh at my Pulp Fiction reference. But he was kind enough to ignore the graffiti on the walls and the questionable carpet stains. The room was truly depressing, with faded greenish carpet, water-stained wallpaper, and a bedspread the color of medical waste.

“Surely this isn’t the best room they had to offer,” he said.

I snorted, waving my arm at the splendor before us. “Oh, no, this is the honeymoon suite.”

Overhead, we heard the din of male voices, talking over one another, laughing in that way only the truly inebriated can master. It sounded as if there were twenty of them, shoved into the room above ours.

“This is not going to be a restful evening, is it?”

I shook my head. “No.”

While Collin was in the shower, I made a call to Iris. She did not have any suggestions for how to address our car’s recent “blossoming,” but her teenage sister, Gigi, found a lot of humor in the situation.

“Have you thought about spray-painting a bikini top over them?” Gigi asked.

“You are so not helping,” I grumbled. “Stupid speakerphone.”

“Gigi, stop teasing her,” Iris chided, yawning. “Miranda, honey, don’t do anything to it. I know it’s probably embarrassing to drive around with them, but trying paint remover or adding another layer of paint will just make the situation worse. And don’t try to duct-tape cardboard over it. The tape residue will just cause more problems. When you get back to town, we’ll take care of it. Until then, just stick to the back roads … and avoid church buses … and school buses basically, all forms of mass transit.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And don’t beat yourself up over it,” she told me. “I parked my van outside Jane’s bookshop a while ago, and someone painted ‘VAMPIRE BITCH’ across the hood.”

“Well, that’s hurtful and inaccurate.”

She hummed in agreement. “I had to leave it that way for a week until I could get it fixed. I got some really funny looks at Walmart. Just be more careful about where you park from now on.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And stop calling me ma’am.”

I laughed. “Yes, ma’am.”

“So how are things going with the mysterious Mr. Sutherland?”

This was the question I was dreading. I ended up forcing the words out in a rush. “Fine. It was a little rough at the start, but I think we’ve come to an understanding.”

“Has he lightened up at all on the contract rider and all of those rules?” she asked. “I’m sorry to have put that on you, but he wouldn’t sign without it, and Ophelia was insistent that she didn’t trust anyone but Beeline to transport him.”

“No, he definitely likes his own way. But he’s stopped being downright hostile. And at least he’s not asking me to separate his M&M’s by color.”

She groaned. “Your next assignment will be driving fluffy kittens to an amusement park, I promise.”

“And now I’m worried about why vampires would need fluffy kittens.” I shuddered.

“No other problems beyond the spray paint?”

I cleared my throat. This was why I didn’t gamble. I had no poker face, and I tended to hem and haw. Would this be a good time to bring up the other problems? Iris had been downright reasonable about the chicken thing and the boob thing, but would that change when it was compounded with the rednecks, the money issues, and seedy motels? I’d basically put her client through a more perverse, less fun version of a National Lampoon’s Vacation.

“No,” I said before my stupid conscience got a vote. I hated lying to Iris, but I hated the idea of filing and fetching my brother’s coffee more. And that’s where I’d end up if I couldn’t pay off my loan.

“Good. Check in with me tomorrow night, would you?”

I agreed and gave her a heads-up on the amount of gas I’d put on the fleet card so far. She waved off the total as if it was nothing and told me to take care of myself and try to have some fun on the road, to get enough sleep and non-fast food. I stared at the phone in my hand. That was unusual. An employer who put her employees ahead of the bottom line? I could get used to that.

Steeling my nerves, I opened my voicemail and found I had eleven messages from Jason, only five of which Jason was aware he’d left. In between messages in which I heard him order coffee, mutter to himself about a faulty fax machine, and make closing arguments in an attempted murder case, Jason told me how much he wanted me home with him. He said the house didn’t smell the same anymore, no more pies in the oven, no hints of my perfume. He hated sleeping alone. He hated showering without someone trying to talk to him around the curtain.

Jason loved me. The thought of losing me scared him too much, he said. He promised he wouldn’t see Lisa again, even if it meant awkward moments with her or her family, longtime friends of the Cordners. He wanted to start over. He loved me, he insisted, and he wanted to make a life with me, even if he hadn’t worked through his feelings for Lisa. He hadn’t meant to hurt me, he said. Lisa was there to listen to him, as always, and things went too far. It hadn’t meant anything.

That last reference had me pausing. It brought back all of those crazy “reality-show wench” feelings. How far exactly had “things” gone? Had he lied about that, too? I mean, he told me that he and Lisa were “just friends,” like brother and sister. And as far I knew, brothers and sisters did not exchange steamy confessions of love via text message. Had they been sleeping together this whole time? Was it really better if they hadn’t? Why was I sort of OK with Jason thinking he might be in love with another woman, but the thought of him having sex with her made me want to attack him with a farm implement?

“Stop it,” I told myself. “Torturing yourself isn’t going to do you any good.”

I rubbed a hand over my face. I felt better after getting off the phone, even if I had withheld quite a bit of information from Iris, and was once again plagued with visions of Jason and Lisa playing naked Twister. If nothing else, the call made me more determined to keep my job with Iris. I liked working for her. Sure, this assignment had been a twitching nightmare, but she said the next one would be easier. I would find a way to make it up to her, I decided. I would get up early, drive like hell the next two nights, and get Collin to the Hollow well before the deadline, even if it killed me.

I really hoped it didn’t kill me.

The shower was still running when I stepped into the room. Collin’s overnight case was left outside the door. I didn’t have the energy for that, so I slid on some blue plaid boy shorts and a tank top and flopped onto the stiff, crunchy tan bedspread. This outfit was not exactly appropriate work wear, but I hadn’t been expecting nighttime “company.” And I wasn’t about to sleep in jeans.

When the water shut off with a protesting squeak, I nearly jumped out of my skin. I turned on the lumpy bed, realizing that the bathroom door was standing open. Collin stepped out of the shower, wrapping a towel around his waist.

Good Lord.

Pale skin, miles of it, perfect and smooth. A little metal key hung from a slim chain around his neck. He had a swimmer’s body, lean, rangy, with long legs. His feet were slender and highly arched. Water dripped down the muscled contours of his back, toward a butt that—

That settled it. I was jealous of a towel.

I did my best to look away. I didn’t even want to admit that I wanted to look. A little flirtation at dinner was one thing, but I would not let him know that seeing him swathed in a threadbare towel was possibly the best sexual experience I’d had in more than a year. I had to maintain some dignity. He shot a startled glance into the bedroom, as if he hadn’t expected me to be there.

“Apologies,” he said, grabbing his overnight case and snapping the door shut.

My jaw dropped. What the hell? He was a vampire. Vampires did not get distracted. They didn’t just forget that there was a beating human heart pumping the scent of their favorite food into the next room. Had he left the door open on purpose? Was he trying to torture me?

I grabbed my lip balm and paperback out of my bag, knowing full well that I wouldn’t read before I went to sleep. But it was my nightly ritual, and it had to be respected. I was standing by the bed, debating whether it was grosser to sleep on the comforter or to risk bedbug bites by climbing under the sheets, when the door swung open again. Collin emerged, damp hair curling slightly at the ends, a plume of steam following him out of the bathroom like something out of a Whitesnake video.

He was wearing another suit, black this time, with a crisp blue shirt. And because I was suddenly very self-conscious about my work-inappropriate sleepwear, I yanked back the covers and slid between the sheets.

Shudder.

“So do you own a pair of jeans?” I asked.

“Why would I wear jeans and T-shirts when the clothing I wear suits me so much better?” he asked.

“Touché,” I muttered.

There was a loud thump from the room above ours and a chorus of drunken laughter. I heard the opening bars of “Gangsta’s Paradise” blare though the floor. Tiny sprinkles of ceiling dust drifted down like carcinogenic snow. As the bass line picked up, the snow flurries graduated to large flakes of paint.

I sighed and pulled the sheet over my face. “Of course.”

I made a little peephole in the threadbare fabric so I could peer out. Collin pulled the bare wooden chair away from the battered desk, wiped it clean with a handkerchief, and settled in with a book. I punched a pillow the thickness of a maxi pad into shape and propped my head against it. I pretended not to notice that he’d propped his feet on the bed, that they were inches away from own. The mattress sagged and shifted underneath me as I flopped back and forth like a fish, trying to find a comfortable position.

“I thought you were tired,” he said blandly as I fidgeted under the covers.

“I’m exhausted, but I can’t sleep,” I whined, throwing the covers back and picking up my book. “This bed is like something out of ‘The Princess and the Pea.’”

“Is that a veiled request for a bedtime story?”

I wondered briefly if that meant I could crawl into his lap. Because if so, I was onboard.

“What are you reading?”

“Catch-22,” I said, showing him the cover.

“That’s a rather bleak story.”

“It’s about someone in a no-win situation of his own creation. I can relate.”

“Do you often read such nihilistic works?”

“No, I read a little bit of everything. Mysteries, fantasy, horror, romances—except for bodice rippers.”

“Beg pardon?”

I propped myself on my elbows. “Historical romances. You know, the swashbuckling pirate hero wants his lady so badly that he just rips the bodice of her gown open to access her bosoms.”

He snickered derisively. “That’s bloody ridiculous.”

“Yeah, I can’t believe I said bosoms, either.”

“No, speaking as someone with experience, you can’t just rip bodices open,” he insisted rather indignantly. “It takes time and patience and, in some cases, a small, deftly maneuvered blade.”

“Really?” I asked, wiggling my eyebrows.

“I was known to mangle a few bodices in my day.”

“I bet you did, you libertine, you.” I chuckled.

“Do you read often?”

“Whenever I can. Most nights, I can’t go to sleep unless I do.”

“It seems out of character. You’re always running, running, running,” he said. “Frankly, I can’t believe you’ve been still this long. I feel I must sit here and witness such a miracle of behavioral suppression.”

“Your plan is to sit there and stare at me until sunup?” I asked. “Not creepy at all.”

“I have a book,” he said, waving the thick linen-bound volume at me.

“It’s not a book on taxidermy, is it? 101 Ways to Display the Corpses of Humans Who Annoy You?”

“Of course not.” He opened it, licking a finger before carefully selecting a page. He added softly, “I left that particular title at home.”

I barked out a laugh, flopping onto my other side to try to evade the weird dent in the middle of the mattress. It felt as if it might drop out from under me at any—

Ker-RAANK!

The metal leg supporting the foot of the bed bent and collapsed, and I slid to the end of the mattress with a thump. Groaning, I climbed up the mattress, only to slide right back down so my feet touched the floor. Accepting that I would have to sleep at a twenty-degree angle, I pulled the blanket over my arms and made the best of it.

“Don’t laugh,” I grunted into the pillow.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

MC HAMMER RUINS AN OTHERWISE PLEASANT EVENING

6

I’d almost dozed off when the dancing started. I didn’t know people still danced to “U Can’t Touch This.” But when they did, it caused a lot of damage. The paint drifted down from the ceiling in a near blizzard. The dusty domed light fixture above my head rattled like a loose pot lid. I watched, mesmerized by its rhythmic jiggle.

Suddenly, Collin shot to his feet.

I blinked blearily at him. “What—”

He dove for me, sliding his arms under me and rolling off the bed. We landed on the floor with an “Oof!” OK, the “Oof!” was mine, after Collin landed on top of me. After the initial breathless shock of the landing, I froze. His nose was a few scant inches from mine. I could practically feel his eyelashes brushing against my cheeks as he gazed down at me, lips slightly parted. I could smell the strange mix of herbs, citrus, and mint on his skin, the cool sweetness of his breath. A rush of blood heated my skin, drawing his fangs out with a little snick as the blush spread to my chest. He seemed to be able to track its progress with his eyes, trailing down to my heart and watching it pulse beneath the skin. I squirmed under the weight of his hips wedged between my thighs.

His nostrils flared as he inched closer, a purring noise rumbling from his chest and through my own. His lips traced a cool path down my jugular, and my eyes rolled up, just catching sight of a huge black spider scuttling under the bed. Acute arachnophobia snapped me out of my hormone-fueled daze.

“What the hell?” I yelped, just as the glass globe from the light fixture dropped and shattered against the bed, right where my head had rested just a minute before. Collin threw his arm over my head as glass tinkled down against his shoulders, the carpet around our heads.

“It worked!” he exclaimed, grinning down at me. It was like the moon breaking through storm clouds, white and brilliant and welcome. His eyes slid down my skin to assess any damage.

“Yes, throwing me to the ground was a very effective method of getting me out of bed.”

“No, the light, I saw it—” He seemed so relieved that a tacky light fixture had nearly crashed into my head. “I saw it.”

My brow furrowed. “I’m … glad?”

He grinned down at me, and suddenly, I was acutely aware of the fact that he was sprawled between my unclad thighs. The silky fabric of his suit chafed pleasantly against my skin as his legs tangled with mine. He leaned in close, the faintest stirring of air against my lips.

He leaned down, brushing his lips across mine tentatively, then pulling my lip into his mouth.

“What are you doing?” I blurted out.

He drew back. “What?”

“You were kissing me,” I said, almost as shocked as I was amused. His mouth dropped open, and he was about to protest. “If you try to pretend you weren’t, I will lose all respect for you.”

“If I was kissing you, you would know,” he said solemnly.

“You’re right, I hallucinated it,” I shot back.

Lightning-fast, he struck, claiming my mouth with his. I felt the prick of his fangs as he worried my lip between his teeth. I moaned into his mouth, the cool slide of flesh over cool flesh. My fingers curled around his nape, feathering through the soft dark hair there. I tentatively swept the tip of my tongue against his lip and tasted the tangy sweetness of his mouth. He eagerly parted his lips and let his tongue dance with mine. His hands skimmed the length of my body, resting on my hips, tilted them to match his own.

His hands slid under my butt, and he ground down. I hummed pleasantly around his tongue and felt a responding purr building in his chest. He was so cool to the touch. I expected him to be cold, hard, but this was such a soothing contrast to the heat of my own body. I flexed under him, just for the pleasure of feeling his skin slide against mine. He groaned and held me still with a quick grip of my hips.

His mouth broke away from mine. “You really are the most interesting girl, did you realize?”

I nodded. “I defy you to find anyone more interesting than me.”

He grinned again and traced my uninjured fingers over his cheeks to his lips. He pressed the tip of one between his teeth and gently bit down, drawing a bit of blood. It seeped into his mouth, and I could feel every bump of his sandpaper tongue against the pad of my digit. With each draw against the wound, a strange pulsing energy edged up from between my thighs. I moaned, throwing my head back and grinding my hips up against him. The pulsing became a rolling riptide, dragging me over the edge—

Too much, too much, too much! my brain screamed at me.

What was I doing? What the hell was I thinking? Although we were on a break, so to speak, I was still technically involved with Jason. And if I got mad at him for cheating on me “emotionally” with Lisa, I couldn’t in good conscience get all grindy with Collin.

Hell, what I was doing was worse. Jason seemed to have genuine feelings for Lisa. All I had for Collin were neuron-frying lust and the tender, green beginnings of mutual respect. Maybe this was some sort of Stockholm syndrome? I was stuck in increasingly bizarre situations with Collin, so I bonded to him emotionally? Maybe it was my brain’s way of preventing a total psychological break.

Then again, considering that it was Collin who kissed me, maybe he was having the break. What was he thinking? The man who sneered at my “limitations” twenty-four hours ago couldn’t be the same guy who pinned me to the floor and kissed the hell out of me. Why was he doing this? Did he really like me, or did my employment stories make him feel sorry for me? Was this a pity kiss?

“I think I’ll take that shower now,” I whispered, easing my fingers away from his mouth.

He frowned, looking me over. “Do you have glass in your hair?”

“No, but we’ve had contact with the carpet.” I gave an exaggerated shiver.

He smiled again and helped me to my feet. I scampered across the stained, glittering rug and locked myself in the cramped little bathroom. It still smelled like the herbal shampoo he used. It seemed so strange, after spending the last day at such a distance, to share a relatively intimate space. It was downright domestic, his Fang-Brite Mouthwash on the counter next to my toothbrush. My little bottles of toiletries in the shower next to his. I shook off these pointless musings and doused my head.

The cooling shower helped me focus my thoughts. Kissing Collin, as wonderful as it had been, was a huge mistake. Nothing good could come of it. Leaving off the complications to my already conscience-boggling relationship with Jason and the potential professional ass whipping I would take if Iris found out, it wasn’t as if Mr. Sixteen-Page Contract Rider would want anything but a one-night stand with me. And that would most likely be for the sake of bragging rights with his fellow uptight ancients: “You wouldn’t believe the walk on the wild side I took with this spazzy little human who couldn’t walk across a parking lot unscathed.”

I shampooed aggressively, which is always a mistake. I ended up with dried-out hair and an empty bottle of shampoo. I combed through my wet tangle of hair, carefully moisturizing and applying a raspberry-scented lotion.

I would put a stop to this, even if it meant a return to cranky, stern Mr. Sutherland. I would be sensible, for once in my life. I would be professional, discreet. I would stop letting the client suck on my fingers.

I slipped back into the shorts and tank, combing through my wet hair and brushing my teeth far more vigorously than I usually did. Curious, I lifted the top of the Fang-Brite Mouthwash, suddenly very self-conscious about the state of my breath. I sniffed. It smelled just like any market-brand mouthwash. I took a little swig … and immediately coughed it right into the sink.

It was like minty-fresh battery acid! I cupped my hand under the faucet, spooning it into my mouth and rinsing thoroughly. I checked the mirror to make sure my teeth hadn’t melted away. They were present … and a little whiter. Clearly, vampire teeth were made of stronger stuff than mine.

Note to self: Vampire products are for vampires only.

I straightened the towels, knowing that leaving them askew would drive Collin nuts, and decluttered the bathroom before emerging. He was standing right outside the door, making me yelp in surprise and nearly slip on the wet tile. His hand shot out and caught me before I landed on my butt.

“What are you doing?” I demanded. I glanced down at the worn brown leather journal in his hand. My worn brown leather journal. He was looking through my photos again. “What is it with you and that journal? Has it occurred to you that you should ask before you go rifling through someone’s stuff?”

“It’s intriguing,” he said, holding the book open to a page showing a picture of the sunrise over the Atlantic City Boardwalk. I remembered waiting for that shot, holding my breath until the exact moment the sun rose over the water and set it on fire with flickers of gold and red. “Did you take all of the photos yourself?”

“Yes.”

“That explains the whirring and clicking I heard at the diner. Did you take my picture when my eyes were closed?”

I smirked a little and notched my chin up a bit. “Maybe.”

“You’re very good, a keen eye for dramatic composition. I haven’t seen the sunrise in more than a century, but I feel as if I’m there. I can feel the sun on my face … without the sensation of my flesh bursting into flame.”

“That’s a plus,” I agreed. I pushed past him, taking my journal with me, only to find that he had cleared out the glass-littered bedspread, propped up the bent bed leg, and put the room to rights. “Thanks for fixing the bed.”

“I called the front desk. The clerk was more than willing to let me vacuum up the mess myself. Unfortunately, the party upstairs seems to be a stag night for the manager’s cousin. So the noise levels won’t be lowering anytime soon. Also, the clerk mentioned something about beggars can’t be choosers? Do you know what that means?”

“No.” I shook my head, shrugging. “The noise is OK, actually. It reminds me of when I lived in Detroit, above this noodle shop and karaoke bar. Awesome mai fun. Baaaad impersonations of Britney Spears.”

I slid into the bed and tried not to think about the relative cleanliness of the sheets. Collin settled into his chair and propped his feet on the bed.

“How did you know about the light fixture?”

He pursed his lips as he turned the page of his book. “It’s not important.”

“Right,” I muttered. Unreasonably irritated by this response, I rolled away from him and pulled the blankets up to my chin. “Good night, Collin.”

I closed my eyes, letting the weight of exhaustion drag me into soft, dark near-unconsciousness.

“I see glimpses.”

My eyes snapped open at the sound of his voice. I propped myself up on my elbows, blinking at him. “I’m sorry?”

“I see glimpses of the future. That’s what I meant earlier by ‘it worked.’ It’s been days since it’s worked properly. I finally got a quick impression, and it was you, getting pelted with broken glass from the broken fixture. I believe it was because you were finally still, not able to make plans or decisions.”

“One, that’s kind of a dickish thing to say. And two, thank you for saving me from a face full of broken glass.”

“You’re very welcome. I quite like your face. I would like it to remain intact.”

Lord help me, I actually blushed and struggled for something to say. All I could come up with was, “So you’re psychic?”

“Only vaguely, but over time, I’ve seen the signs of events and can interpret a larger picture. After a while, all of the possible scenarios seem repetitive.”

“And that’s how you knew to throw the coffee out the window earlier?”

He grinned. “No, you were eyeing that cup and my face in a way that could only mean injury for me.”

I sat up, facing him. “Is that why you try so hard to control your environment?”

“Every choice, every change in plans, every shift in direction is a chance for different outcomes. I see them all. If I allow too many of those variables, the effect is disorienting and overwhelming.”

“That’s why you try so hard to avoid contact with people? To avoid being overwhelmed?” I guessed. “And what does that have to do with your anti-fast-food-wrapper obsession?”

“Well, frankly, I find the idea of leaving week-old food wrappers in your car to be pointless and disgusting,” he told me. “But there are other issues. The more cluttered an environment, the more likely it is that an accident will occur. If there are too many potential outcomes in a situation, it can become disorienting for me.”

“But if you can see an accident coming, how did you end up in a plane crash?”

“I didn’t see it coming,” he said. “I’d flown a handful of times without problems. I didn’t see anything going awry when we boarded. And then, an hour into the flight, the pilot was offered a piece of candy. It was an impulsive gesture from a copilot who normally didn’t like to share. The candy had nuts in it, which caused a violent allergic reaction in the pilot—”

“And that crashed the plane?”

“He pitched forward against the controls, sent the plane into a tailspin it couldn’t recover from,” he said, closing his eyes as if to ward off the memory. “There are so many potential outcomes. I can’t keep up with them all. I had to retreat to somewhere where I could control more of the variables. The relief from the short-term chaos is wonderful.”

“But every day is the same, isn’t it? And you have so many of them,” I said, my heart breaking just a little at the very idea. “So I guess when you seem disaffected and bored, you really are disaffected and bored. You’ve been there, done that, and even when a few surprises come your way, they’re spoiled for you. That’s one of the saddest things I’ve ever heard. And I was once the Dancing Hen at Clucky’s Lucky Chicken Shack.”

“The light-fixture scenario was the first full-fledged vision I’ve had in your presence, which was why I was so smug about it.” He moved onto the bed and took my hand in his. “With you, I never know how things are going to turn out. You are a constantly shifting variable. It seems there are too many possibilities to see. In essence, you’ve shorted out my gift.”

“I’m sorry.”

The corner of his mouth lifted. “Don’t be. It’s made the last two days rather frustrating but incredibly entertaining.”

“Well, I’m happy to be of service.”

He leaned in close to kiss my neck. I stayed perfectly still, battling my urge to respond as his lips trailed along my skin. “Good night.”

“Do you really think I’m going to be able to sleep now?” I laughed as he settled in beside me, careful not to touch bare skin to the bedspread. “I just found out that my road-trip buddy can see the future. It’s a bit of an eye opener. I have a question or two.”

“Such as?”

“Where do you come from? How did you become a vampire? How did you discover you could see ‘glimpses’?”

“That’s more than two questions.”

“Humor me.”

“Shall I start at the beginning?” he asked. I nodded. “I’m from Derbyshire. My father was a baronet who took himself very seriously. I was the second son, the spare to the heir, as they say. Almost nothing was expected of me. My job was to remain respectable and wait in the wings in case some ridiculous riding accident claimed my brother, with whom I was not very close.”

“So joining the army was a rebellion against a lack of expectation?”

“Well, Father eventually got over the shock of any son of his engaging in manual labor.”

“Pause for the implied horrified gasp.”

“Obviously,” he said, winking at me in a way that had my insides going all squishy. “After Father got over the shock, he told anyone who would listen that it was only right that I fulfill my familial obligation to the crown. If the aristocracy didn’t step forward to stamp out the upstart colonial agitators, who would?”

“I hate to be the one to point this out, but the upstart colonial agitators whipped your collective British ass.”

“I think you very much enjoy pointing that out,” he muttered. “Anyway, I was sent off with his blessing and with all the pomp and circumstance he considered appropriate. I was a happy soldier. I enjoyed following orders. As the war lagged on, we heard rumors of battalions being picked off from the far reaches of the battlefields, of bodies disappearing from the aftermath while the surgeons searched for survivors. By the time Cornwallis finally grasped that he’d lost, we’d attracted avid vampire epicures, who enjoyed feeding on the wounded in the confusion of battle. When they realized that the war was winding down and their favorite cuisine was leaving the country, they snatched us from the camps in increasing numbers. Myself included.

“I would spare you the details, but let’s just say that my turning was bloody, horrific, the sort of story we tell spoiled, modern vampires who complain about their own rebirth. And I had trouble adjusting to my new life. After so many years of war, you would think that a few more lives wouldn’t matter. But I found that I couldn’t kill again, particularly when I could see the results of their deaths while I fed. Children left without parents. Wives left unprotected and broken. I had to train myself to feed sparingly, carefully. But my gift was very valuable in other ways. It helped me avoid detection by humans, to find the best prey. That became more challenging as the population and its mobility increased. Still, I was able to see more of the world, make a living at a trade, neither of which I had ever thought was possible. It’s been a good life. Difficult sometimes, but a good life.” He looked up at me with a crooked, sheepish grin. “I haven’t told anyone about myself in a long time. Vampires don’t trust their history to humans, as a rule.”

“So why tell me?” I asked.

“Because you shared so much of yourself with me. And because I’m sorry that it seems to hurt you.”

“My life story is not tragic-painful, it’s tragic-embarrassing. There’s a difference,” I told him, much to his amusement. “Sometimes I worry that the reason so many bad things seem to happen around me is that I went against what my parents wanted, like some sort of King Lear–style ungrateful-child karma. I mean, I would have been unhappy going to law school—in some alternative reality where I could actually finish law school. But at least I wouldn’t be so distant from my family. I mean, they’re all huge pains in my ass. With the exception of my relationship with Jason, they dismiss everything I do as just another ‘silly Miranda thing.’”

“What did your parents want for you?”

“Anything but this.” I laughed, gesturing around the room. “They wanted me to marry Jason, stay in the Hollow where they could keep an eye on me. Have babies. Join the PTA.”

“And what did you want?”

“Anything but that,” I said, the words escaping my mouth before I could think too much about how quickly I’d answered.

“And who is this Jason person?”

And I couldn’t but be a little pleased with the hint of jealousy in his voice.

“Way too long of a story to get into now,” I said, yawning widely. “Broken engagement. Big drama.”

“You will tell me about it tomorrow.”

“Yes. Tell me more about you,” I murmured. He complied, and I drifted off to the sound of his voice, smooth and honeyed.

SLEEPING AT THE WHEEL TENDS TO MAKE YOUR PASSENGERS NERVOUS

7

I had sweet dreams of citrus scents and smooth, cool skin. I was rolling on soft white sheets while strong hands kneaded my back, slipping between my thighs to play my body like a violin. I was lost in the sensation of hands sliding over my skin as I floated on waves and waves of pleasure. Every cell of my body was poised for release. Just one more swish of his finger against my little bundle of nerves, and I would scream—“Collin!”

My eyes snapped open, mid-orgasm, as I writhed on the bed. I breathed heavily through my nose, riding out the last flutters and twisting my fingers in the sheets. My skin was coated in a light sheen of sweat, the back of my neck drenched.

I sat up carefully. The room was empty when I woke, a chair wedged under the doorknob. I would think about how he had managed to get out of the room with a chair propped against the door at another time. My bag was packed and all of my belongings gathered on the desk. It was still dark out, but I was determined to get an early start this morning. I had just enough cash to budget for gas-station coffee and a doughnut, which wasn’t exactly the breakfast of champions, but it would have to do.

On top of my suitcase was a little folded piece of paper.

Miranda,

Good morning. I tried to fuel up the car while you were asleep. I watched you driving and followed the procedures you use, with the exception of waving my middle finger at other drivers who follow too closely. Overall, I consider my first modern driving experience to be a success. Putting gas in the car was another story. Please tell Miss Scanlon that I’ll pay for the repairs.

“No, no, no!” I gasped, running to the motel window. The car was parked right outside our room, half in and half out of the parking space. It seemed that Collin didn’t know how to open the hatch for the gas tank. So he’d simply stuck his fingers into the groove and forced the door open with his vampire strength. Three finger-depth dents now marked the side panel, and the hatch door hung by the tiniest shred of a hinge.

I made a strange noise somewhere between a squawk and a sob. “Shiiiit!” I shouted, clapping my hand over my mouth. A hysterical giggle burst up from my chest, bubbling up through my mouth. And suddenly, I just didn’t care whether I woke up the rap-loving bachelors upstairs.

“He was trying to do something nice,” I told myself, squinching my eyes shut and clenching my teeth. “He was trying to help. Don’t freak out. It’s not like a broken gas door is that much worse than the new hood ornaments.” Groaning, I returned to reading the note.

Also, you will need to put gas in the car, as I’d forgotten that I did not have a wallet when I arrived at the station.

I snorted. “Of course.”

I will see you in Omaha tonight.

“Well, that was a very pleasant note, completely lacking in biting sarcasm,” I murmured. “Oh, wait, here we go.”

P.S. If I thought you made interesting statements while awake, imagine my astonishment at your candor while you are asleep. I didn’t know some of those acts were anatomically possible. I pledge to spend more time on the Internet, so I can catch up.

What did I say? What did I—Oh, Lord, did I moan? I seemed to recall that there was a lot of moaning … And giggling.

“Fuck a duck,” I groaned.

I drove like a bat out of hell for most of the morning, keeping the speedometer in that “ten mile over the limit” cushion that cops tended to overlook.

I found myself worrying about whether Collin was comfortable in his little cubby. It made me sad to think of him in his crisp suit, lying in a sort of coffin with his hands folded over his chest. Then again, as far as I knew, vampires slept in the fetal position, sucking their thumbs. Did the bumps of the road disturb him? Was he too hot, too cold? Did vampires feel these things in their “sleep”? Did he have a pillow? Did vampires need pillows? Ultimately, I decided there wasn’t much I could do, since opening the cubby to check on him would expose him to sunlight and kill him.

I used my time, navigating the rolling fields of Nebraska, to hash and rehash the events of the previous evening. What exactly was going on between Collin and me? Twenty-four hours before, I’d seriously considered lighting him on fire and blaming a faulty cigarette lighter. And somehow I thought it would be a good idea to roll around with him on a filthy motel carpet like a recently deflowered teenager on prom night?

I had a healthy sexual appetite, but nothing prepared me for the visceral responses that Collin drew from me. What did it say about me that I could get angry with Jason for telling Lisa that he loved her, but I could kiss Collin?

Collin was funny, without meaning to be. He was smart enough to be annoyed by my chaos and mess, but he also recognized that there was entertainment value in it. He listened to me, really listened, not just as a next step toward getting into my pants. He honestly wanted to understand what was going on in my head … if only I understood what was going on in my head. He knew what it was like, coming from a family that didn’t quite know what to do with you. And he made me laugh.

Last but not least, there was the fact that he was gorgeous in a tortured Byronic, Edward Rochester-meets-Lucius-Malfoy sort of way. He made me want to climb him like a proper British tree, for no other reason than that wrinkling his clothes would annoy him severely and, I hoped, provoke him into spanking me. He made me dizzy. He made my ears ring.

Wait, no. That was my phone.

Henry Rollins was singing, his ode to liars echoing in the cabin of the car. Jason was calling me again. It was time for me to talk to him. I hadn’t spoken to him in almost a week. It wasn’t mature or fair to shut him out like this. I hadn’t asked for complete radio silence while I was on the road, just some space. I could spare a few minutes to let him know that I was safe.

And yes, maybe that was “I committed frottage with a vampire” guilt talking.

I sighed and pressed the speakerphone function, remembering Collin’s rule about talking on the phone while driving. But even as I reached for the phone, I found myself praying that it was just another ass-dial.

“Hello?”

“Hey, you!” Jason exclaimed, as if he were speaking to me from across a war zone and not the Heartland. “Oh, Miranda, honey, it’s so good to hear your voice. I know you said you needed space, but not hearing from you has been driving me nuts.”

“I’m fine, Jason, really. I just need time to think.” And you and your ass calling me a half-dozen times a day isn’t helping my frame of mind, I added silently.

“I’m trying to give it to you, really. But it’s hard. I miss you,” he said. “I miss talking to you every day. No one makes me laugh like you do. No one’s made inappropriate jokes about professional baseball or network newscasters around me in weeks. I’ve been bored out of my skull.”

This probably was the point when I was supposed to say I missed him, too. But I found that the sound of his voice just sucked all of the wind out of my sails. Why couldn’t he listen to me when I said I needed space? Why couldn’t he back off? What was with this constant calling? He didn’t phone me this much when we were together.

Under normal circumstances, I would prattle through the day’s events, ask him questions about wedding plans, try to trick him into revealing what he planned for our date that evening. But today I was just sitting there, waiting for him to tell me what he wanted so I could get off the phone. He was the one who wanted to talk to me so bad, so why couldn’t he come up with conversation?

In Half-Moon Hollow, Jason cleared his throat. “Are you having fun?”

My lips quirked into a smile. I was, actually. Even with all of the disasters that befell us, I was having a pretty good time. But if I told Jason that, he would pout. I wasn’t supposed to be having fun. I was supposed to be using this time for a sensible relationship inventory.

Also, the idea of his having to come up with a whole conversation on his own was sort of amusing, so I kept it short and sweet. “No.”

Awkward silence, empty enough to form its own black hole and swallow both of us. I wondered whether I could crinkle paper near the receiver and pretend I was driving through a tunnel … in Nebraska. Did they have tunnels in Nebraska?

“I know you said you can’t talk about your clients, but can you at least tell me if this vampire is being nice to you?” he asked. “Do I need to talk to this Iris Scanlon about putting my girl in a car with the cranky undead?”

Something about the way he said “my girl” made me all warm inside. He used to address his notes to me with “To my girl.” Flowers, gifts, little tokens to show how much he cared, how often he thought of me. And I had loved knowing that I was his. It was the first time anyone had really claimed me. I mean, sure, my parents introduced me as their daughter, but they always did it with this note of apology in their voices. Jason had always introduced me with his hand on the small of my back, pushing me gently toward the other party, as if he couldn’t wait for them to meet me.

“He is decidedly not nice,” I said, smiling. “We’re getting to the point where we can tolerate each other without death glares. That’s about all I can say.”

“Well, if I need to fly up there and set him straight, you let me know.”

“As much as I appreciate it, I don’t think sending my ex in to beat him up makes me look very professional,” I said. “Also, he’s got all that vampire strength, so it probably wouldn’t end well for you.”

“I’m still your ex?” he asked, a note of hurt in his voice.

“At this point, yes. I haven’t made up my mind one way or the other, I’m sorry,” I said. “I need more time. And for the record, I also don’t think you could beat up a vampire.”

I admit, I was just trying to distract him with that little challenge to his manliness.

“Well, how much do you think you’re going to need?” he asked, his tone growing testy.

Apparently, the attempted distraction was a failure.

“However long it takes,” I said. “I hope to have an answer for you by the time I come back, but I’m not making any promises.”

“You’re just going leave me hanging until you decide whether you still want to be with me or not? That doesn’t seem fair, Miranda.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t think the person who sent ‘I heart you, PoohBear’ texts to my maid of honor gets to make too many demands on me right now,” I retorted.

“Oh, Miranda.” He sighed and used that tone of voice that he only used when I was being stubborn or silly or both. “Don’t be that way.”

“What have you been doing while I’ve been away?” I asked, struggling to keep the petulant tone out of my voice.

“Oh, you know, staying busy with work,” he said dismissively. “Eating dinner at my mom’s, hanging out with Jake, that sort of thing.”

The unspoken question hung between us over the phone line. Had he seen Lisa? Had he kept his promise to put a halt to their relationship while we were still trying to work out whatever it was that we had? I didn’t know if I had the right to ask, given my circumstances, but he didn’t know that.

He really didn’t need to know that.

My inability and his unwillingness to discuss it irritated me for some reason, and I just wanted to get off the stupid phone and back to driving. “I need to go. I’m not supposed to take personal calls while driving.”

“Oh, all right, then. I just haven’t been able to catch you over the last few days. I thought you’d want to talk to me.”

“I’ll talk to you soon, Jason.”

“All right,” he said, sounding slightly wounded. “I love you.”

I clicked the “end” button before I could respond.

It wasn’t normal, I told myself. A simple conversation with a man I was supposed to love shouldn’t make me that uncomfortable. I hadn’t talked to Jason in days. I was supposed to be missing him, thinking about him. And talking to him had brought up all of these feelings of anger and disappointment. Was it the distance? Was his absence allowing me to feel the things I’d suppressed because I didn’t want to upset Jason, my mother, all of the people involved in the wedding?

The Miranda who had worked at Puckett and Puckett, putting up with her brother giving her noogies in the break room and her father checking her work for typos with a magnifying glass, never would have spoken to Jason in that flat, uninterested tone. She would have bubbled and placated until Jason got off the phone, assured him of her love. The girl who’d hung up without saying “I love you”? That girl had run away to work on a yacht because college bored her to death. That girl had set a stage magician on fire. She’d groped a vampire on a filthy motel floor.

Was I finding my way back to the girl I was? Was that a good thing or a bad thing? Sure, I’d had more fun before I settled down with Jason, but was I a good person? I had way too much time on my hands to be asking myself these sorts of questions. This mental pathway promised madness.

I turned on the “Jason Called” playlist, which included a crapload of Pink and Joan Jett. I hoped that Collin couldn’t be roused out of his daytime sleep by aggressive femmes, because it was about to get loud.

I drove a little faster, skipping my lunch break. I drank too much cheap coffee. I got a lot of attention from truckers, thanks to my hood decorations. And I was very glad that the windows were so heavily tinted.

By the time the sun set, I’d been driving for twelve hours straight, and I was exhausted. I’d gone through the “Mom Called” playlist, the “I Haven’t Seen a Starbucks in Three Hours” playlist, and the “My Ass Is Numb” playlist. I was planning to pull the car over at 6:04 as scheduled, but I heard the cubby door open with a squeak worthy of any Dracula movie.

“What are you doing?” I yelped, pulling to the side of the road quickly. “I thought you didn’t want the door open unless the car was stopped!”

He climbed out of the cubby and into the passenger seat while I popped a packet of donor blood into the warmer. And somehow, despite recently sleeping and the fact that he’d just done seat gymnastics, his clothes were less wrinkled than mine.

“Hello, Miranda,” he purred, and the rumbling, rolling timber of his accent had me shivering. “Did you sleep well last night?”

“You know how I slept. You were watching,” I muttered. “And if you comment further, you will not get this nummy treat.” I made a sarcastic wave toward the warmer.

“I would hate to miss that. So where will our adventures lead us this evening?” he asked, rubbing his hands together. “Perhaps you can pick a fight with a motorcycle gang.”

I gasped in mock incredulity. “Collin, are you having fun?”

“I simply enjoy trying to predict what you’ll do next. Force of habit.”

I assured Collin that I’d eaten before he rose, so we should just keep driving. He drank his warmed blood on the road. I had no idea how I was going to handle the hotel issue. Collin would be furious when he realized that I’d been lying to him. We would probably have to sleep in the car. And the farther I drove, the lamer the lie would seem.

“Are you all right?” he asked for the fifth time that night. “You seem very tense.”

“I just want to make as much progress as we can tonight, so tomorrow night isn’t such a haul.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to stop for a soda or a bathroom break?” he said. “You haven’t rested since I rose.”

“I’m fine,” I insisted.

But I wasn’t fine. I was freaking exhausted. I blinked at the road, my eyelids and limbs heavy. I was so tired that holding my head up seemed to take a monumental effort. If I was alone, I would turn up the radio to obnoxious girl pop and sing along. I’d open the windows and drink enough caffeine to fire up a legion of skater kids. I didn’t think Collin would appreciate any of that, so I soldiered on.

I was quiet, mulling over the Jason issue and how I would approach him when I got back home. I dreaded seeing him. No matter what I said, I would be disappointing someone. If I ended it, Jason would be upset … in theory. If I got back together with him, I would be disappointing Lisa. And if I didn’t make a decision, I would be surprising no one. The odd thing was, I dreaded the prospect of dropping Collin off at Ophelia’s and saying good-bye so much more than having “the talk” with Jason.

The car was warm. The music was quiet and classical, heavy on lyrical piano. The pattern of yellow stripes marking the lanes created a mental rhythm, lulling me into a state of relaxation. My eyes grew heavy. I saw Collin in breeches and a waistcoat, shirt undone at the collar. He was standing in a field, emerald grass rolling like an ocean. The sun shone down on his skin, beautiful, ruddy, smooth skin glowing with health. He was walking toward me, his eyes twinkling with a special smile that meant that he was happy I’d returned at last. His arms wrapped around me, pressing me so close that my nose nestled against the hollow of his throat. He smelled like rosewood and fresh-mown hay. His hands slipped up my arms, shaking my shoulders. He pulled away, staring down at me with alarm.

“Miranda!” he cried. “Wake up!”

I gasped, bolting up in the seat. The car was veering right, my hands slack on the wheel.

“Miranda!” Collin yelled, shaking me awake.

“I’m awake!” I cried. “I’m awake! I’m sorry!”

The car was sliding off the shoulder into a rocky, unforgiving ditch. I yelped, jerking the wheel, praying that I wouldn’t overcorrect and end up in the opposite lane or flip the freaking car. I sucked in a huge lungful of air, willing the oxygen to recirculate through my brain and wake me the hell up.

“Are you all right?” he asked, brushing my hair away from my face.

I nodded, reaching into the cooler compartment to drag out a Coke and slug back most of it in one gulp. “I’m just a little tired.”

And my nose was burning, because some of the Coke bubbles went the wrong way.

“Tired, hell, Miranda. You’re exhausted. I can feel it rolling off you in waves. You’re making me sleepy, and it’s practically mid-morning by my internal clock.”

“I’ll be fine,” I said, yawning widely. “We have a couple of hours to go yet before we reach our goal for the night. If we stop now, we won’t be able to make the Hollow on time tomorrow night. We’re too close, Collin. I can’t hold us up just because I’m a little sleepy.”

Also, I didn’t know how the hell we would pay for a hotel, I silently added, and sleeping at a truck stop didn’t really appeal to me.

“Pull over,” he said, opening his atlas and checking our route.

“What? Why?”

“I’m going to drive.”

“You don’t have a license,” I protested.

“That doesn’t mean I don’t know how to drive. I just didn’t want to be documented by the human government.”

“Were you afraid you would take a bad photo?” I asked, yawning again.

“Impossible. Look at my profile.”

“And modest, too.” I chuckled weakly. “Well, I would be happy to let you drive, but I’ve got enough to explain to Iris.”

“Meaning?”

“You ripped off my gas-tank door!” I exclaimed.

He huffed. “I’ve been secluded for decades. The last car I drove was wound by crank. There have been some changes in technology, but the principles are the same. Besides, the gas tank is nearly full. You have nothing to worry about.”

“I doubt that,” I said. “I appreciate it, Collin, really, but I can’t—”

“You can, and you will,” he insisted. “And imagine how much faster we will get to the Hollow tomorrow if we spend this evening driving instead of resting at a motel.”

“So … skip the motel and drive on through?” I asked.

This was the perfect solution to my having to tell Collin about our money problem. And we’d arrive in the Hollow early, which would impress Iris. If Collin didn’t veer into oncoming traffic and kill us both, which would be a down side.

“And if we arrive in town early and complete my business with Ophelia, perhaps we can spend some time together.”

“We’re spending time together now,” I reminded him, keeping my voice even, despite the excited fluttering in my belly.

“Yes, time restricted by deadlines, work policies, and your reluctance to get involved with a client. I would like to see if we enjoy each other’s company without those constraints.”

“You’re worried that you only like me because you have a chauffeur fetish?” I asked, tilting my head.

He frowned at me. “Miranda.”

“It’s the saucy little hats, isn’t it? Everybody loves a saucy hat.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “I am reconsidering my previous statement.”

“Fine,” I grumbled. “You don’t see anything bad happening?”

“No, but that’s no guarantee with you around.”

“If you have to stop for gas, wake me up,” I told him sternly as I pulled the car onto the shoulder.

“I will,” he promised.

I slipped into the passenger seat as he jogged around the car to the driver’s side. My photo journal was propped open in the console. Collin had shamelessly leafed through it again, despite my protests of privacy. I shoved it between the passenger seat and the console and told myself that it was rude to gripe about it when he’d been so complimentary about my photos. While I’d gassed up the car earlier in the evening, he’d subtly worked in questions about when I would be returning to photography. I’d told him I had no such plans and mentioned Jason’s suggestion of taking Christmas photos at Sears for the diapered set. He was suitably horrified and dropped the subject.

“This is surprisingly comfortable,” I told him, settling into the new front-seat perspective.

He clicked his seatbelt and slid his jacket over me. “Close your eyes and get some rest.”

I smiled, nuzzling my nose into the collar. “Talk to me,” I said. “Your voice helps me fall asleep.”

“I don’t know how to take that.”

“It’s a compliment,” I assured him.

“OK, have you ever wanted to be turned?”

I shook my head. “I don’t think so. I’m pretty sure I would do more damage as an immortal. I’m not afraid of dying … I just want some dignity when it happens. But I think we both know it’s probably going to involve a falling piano or an exotic tropical disease.”

“I think the world would be a lot less interesting without you in it,” he said. “I rather like having you around. Yes, it’s frustrating. But it’s also an incredible relief. The weight is off my shoulders. I don’t feel responsible for the safety of the people around me … except for you, of course. That’s enough to keep me busy, but it’s nice to have some focus.”

I smirked as Collin started describing his childhood in England, his mother, his brother, in a rolling baritone that had my eyelids drooping. My head sank back against the seat. My sleep was deep and untroubled.

I was standing in the middle of a crowded, smoky concert venue, one of those run-down old taverns that try to draw in the younger crowds with watered-down beer and concentrated bad ’80s rock. A mosh pit had formed around me like a sea storm of bodies, twitching and bashing against one another because the occupants were so bored with the band that being knocked unconscious seemed like a better entertainment alternative. I was battered by the waves of unwashed bodies, tempted to drop to my knees and crawl to the nearest fire exit. But that would mean touching the floor, and even in my dreams, I wasn’t going to do that.

A squeal of guitar feedback caught my attention. Collin was standing onstage, the veins and tendons standing stark under his pale skin as he sang, “ ’Cause I’m a LIAR!”

The sight of straight-laced, polished Collin, shirtless and sweaty—and with a pulse, if that angry red flush to his cheeks was any indication—was enough of a shock that I froze. And I was whacked in the face with a flying combat boot for my troubles. Still, it didn’t break the spell of Collin’s stage presence, especially when he looked right at me, blue eyes blazing, and screamed, “Yeah, I’m a LIAR!”

Jerking awake, I sat up slowly, my mouth dry and my head fuzzy. A bit of drool had dried against my cheek, and I swiped at it vigorously. “What the hell?”

My cell phone was blaring Jason’s ringtone from the center console. Fumbling for it, I pressed my thumb to what I thought was the “ignore” button. But my fingertip slid across the screen, and I hit “speakerphone.”

“Oh, shoot,” I hissed, cursing my ineffectual thumbs.

There was a weird thumping noise on the other end of the line and the tumbling crash of furniture being knocked over. I huffed, rolling my eyes. Jason must have ass-dialed me again. I’d almost hit “end” when I heard her.

“Jason!” a high-pitched female voice squealed from the phone. “No tickles! You promised!”

“I’m going to get you,” Jason sing-songed in the stupid voice he sometimes used as “Playful Sex Jason.”

My jaw dropped as I stared at the phone in my hand, transfixed by the source of the obscene giggling.

“No!” the woman squealed, clearly delighted with Playful Sex Jason. More delighted than I can remember being in months. “No, Jason, not the knees!”

“Yes, the knees,” Jason insisted, and I could hear sloppy kissing noises smacking through the receiver. There was a weird muffled thumping sound and more squeals. Jason groaned, and the girl sighed happily. There was another clear, hard thump. And another … and another … and another.

I guessed the “emotional affair” had taken a turn for the naked.

“Lisa!” Jason moaned. “Oh, Lisa, baby, I love you so much.”

“What?” I yelled at my phone. “You son of a bitch!”

Collin snatched the device out of my hands and hit “end,” just as Lisa’s rapturous moans hit a crescendo.

“You didn’t need to hear more,” he said quietly, keeping his eyes on the road.

Speechless, I stared at the phone as if I could reestablish the connection, reach through it, and throttle my former fiancé. Collin actually leaned away from me at the wheel as if he wanted to stay out of smacking range. I crossed my arms over my chest and seethed silently.

What in the actual fuck? How long had Jason been sleeping with Lisa? Had he been lying when he swore that he hadn’t touched her while we were engaged? Had he waited until I was out of town to jump into bed with her? Did it really matter?

I thought about all of the times Jason had apologized for what happened with Lisa, all of the gifts and tearful talks. And I just couldn’t wrap my head around why he bothered. What was his plan? To keep screwing Lisa until the wedding? For the rest of our lives? Why did he spend all that time asking me to come back to him if he loved his childhood friend? If he was in love with her, fine! Why not just take my breaking off the engagement as some sort of sign that they were supposed to be together? Was it that he couldn’t bear being dumped by me? Did he want me back just so he could do the official dumping?

I rubbed my hands over my face, realizing that this was the question that had been eating at me, keeping me from committing to a life with or without Jason. If he loved someone else, why did he say he wanted me?

I’d never trusted his sudden change of heart. I’d been waiting for the other shoe to drop all this time, and it had kicked me in the face months ago. All this time, I knew deep down that as much as I wanted to, I’d never be able to forgive him. Not really. I mean, I assigned him “Liar” as a ringtone. That should have been a whopping subconscious clue.

My heart had known for a while. It just took my brain a few months to catch up. And just when I was starting to feel a little bit better, I realized that we had a bigger problem looming ahead of us.

“Hey, Collin, where are we?”

NOT OK, JOHN DENVER

8

We were supposed to be in Kansas City by now. Instead, we seemed to be stopped on the proverbial dark country road in the drizzling rain, in front of an ancient, rusting bridge. Well, half of an ancient, rusting bridge. The span that was supposed to project over the ravine seemed to have broken off and fallen in, leaving a precariously tilted bridge stump on our side of the crevasse.

“Collin.” I straightened in my seat. “Where the hell are we?”

“I didn’t trust the GPS system on your phone,” he said hesitantly. “I believed I remembered a shortcut from my previous travels through the Heartland.”

“Previous travels through the Heartland? Decades ago? Before modern highway systems were built?”

He pursed his lips. “I may have gotten turned around in a few spots.”

“How long have I been asleep, Collin?”

His lips pressed together, glowing white in the greenish light reflected by the dashboard. The clock read 3:20 A.M.

“How long?” I demanded. “How long have you been lost?”

“About six hours,” he admitted. “You were so tired, and I didn’t want to wake you. You haven’t slept properly since you left Half-Moon Hollow.”

“Six hours?”

“Miranda, I know you’ve just received some upsetting … news, but there’s no reason to get overemotional.”

“Overemotional!” I yelled, shoving the door open and stomping down the slight incline to the mouth of the bridge. Wind whipped my hair around my head in a crazed crown as the rain misted over my cheeks. The headlights were warm against my legs as I stood in front of the car, throwing my arms wide. “Overemotional!”

The sky was pitch black above our heads, the moon hazy and soft through the rainclouds. I gave the rocks at my feet a vicious kick, listening as they skittered over the edge and plummeted at least five stories to the shallow water below.

“You get us lost, in the middle of God knows where, when we were only a few hours’ drive from home, and you don’t want me to get overemotional?” I yelled as Collin climbed out of the car. I flew at him, slapping my hands against his chest. I shoved at him, forcing him off the crumbling asphalt shoulder into the grass. “We could be anywhere!”

“Why are you getting so upset? It’s my deadline, not yours. Look, I’ll call Iris and Ophelia. I’ll explain that it was my fault we got off track.”

“You’re not even supposed to be driving the car, Collin!” I exclaimed. “It’s my responsibility to get us from point A to point B. If you tell Iris you got us lost because you were driving, I will be fired.”

“Miranda,” he said, his voice hoarse as he wrapped his arms around me. I struggled against him, shoving my hands against his chest to break free. “Please, stop.”

“You suck,” I hissed.

“Under normal circumstances, you wouldn’t be so angry about this,” he said. “If your idiot fiancé had not just broadcast his sexual hijinks through your phone, you would probably think this was rather funny.”

“No, you getting me fired from a job, after finally finding one that I enjoy, is not funny under any circumstances!”

“It’s a little funny,” he insisted against my forehead, with a level of mirth that was completely inappropriate given our current circumstances.

Before I could respond, I heard the crackle of gravel underneath the tires. The car was rolling forward! Collin hadn’t set the parking brake, and the natural gravity of the slope was pulling it toward the ravine.

“Collin!” I shrieked.

He rounded the car, pulling the bumper and slowing the car’s progress toward certain plunge-y demise. I leaned in through the open driver’s-side window to grab for the emergency brake. Collin’s strength slowed the car’s movement, but it was still rolling. I yanked on the parking brake, only to have the lever snap loose and come off in my hand.

“Shit!”

My feet slipped on the pavement, and I slid forward through the window, smacking my face against the upholstery of the driver’s seat, just as the front tires rolled off the edge. I pushed back, hoping to balance on my arm, to find that my belt buckle was caught on the window track. I was stuck. I couldn’t pull back from the car.

Great, now I was making progress toward certain plunge-y demise.

Well, I always knew it was probably going to end like this. Though I did think that a falling piano was going to be involved somehow.

“Collin!” I screamed.

My legs dangled helplessly out the window, while I wriggled my hips to loosen the buckle. I felt a rush of air behind me. Cool hands jerked twice at my jeans, gripping at my waist. I spotted my photo journal, wedged between the passenger seat and the console, and yanked it free. Just as the car tipped forward, Collin pulled me through the window and set me on my feet. I watched helplessly as the brake lights disappeared over the edge of the bridge.

I stood, horrified and slack-jawed, as the cartoonish mushroom cloud marking the car’s descent and destruction plumed up toward us. Any moment, I expected Wile E. Coyote to walk out with a little sign that read, “Uh-oh.”

“The parking brake?” I whimpered, holding the plastic lever up without looking away from the ravine. The photo journal hung loose from my other hand.

“I may have gotten a bit bored while I was driving. And I’m not used to modern automobiles. Everything’s made of plastic now and, really, very flimsy. I may have been fiddling with the brake lever during the drive and … bent it a bit.”

“Fiddling?”

“I was trying to help!” he shouted back. “I thought that if I could take a shortcut and get us home faster, it would help you impress your employer.”

“And you didn’t see this happening?” I yelled, gesturing wildly at the ravine.

“I told you, my gift is hardly any use around you. All I saw was the possibility of us running off the road because you dropped one of those Slushee drinks in my lap, which I prevented by buying you a bottle of water. Who could possibly guess this would be an outcome?”

“Well, pardon me for being the jinxed albatross around your neck!” I groused, slapping at his chest.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “Pardon me for a minute.”

I shrieked. I shouted nonsense curse words as Collin disappeared over the lip of the ravine. My heart plummeted into my belly, and I dropped to my knees, peering over the edge. I watched as he dropped gracefully to his feet, sticking the landing with some superhero crouch. The Batmobile was turned on its back like a fiery automotive turtle. The engine had burst into flames as the car rolled, engaging the gas line and creating a dangerous little blaze at the front of the car. Collin gingerly yanked the rear doors open, tossed the crumpled metal panels aside, and crawled inside.

“Collin! What the hell are you doing?”

He emerged quickly with his silver briefcase. He dropped it into the water, and I swore I could hear it steaming. I watched as he gripped the handle in his mouth and smoothly, rapidly ascended the rock face of the cliff.

“Are you crazy? That car was on fire!” I yelled as he climbed over the edge and deposited the case at my feet. “That’s one thing on the short list of things that can kill you.”

He held up his all-important case, looking rather proud of himself, which really, really annoyed me. “The case is fireproof. And waterproof … and it can stand up to most explosives. It’s made of the same material they use for the black boxes in planes. I’m sorry I can’t say the same for our suitcases and your purse, which seem to have tumbled directly into the flames.”

Of course.

“Th-the same material as black boxes?” I spluttered. “Collin, for once and for all, what the hell is in that case?”

He opened his mouth, as if he was seriously considering telling me. But he clamped his lips shut and offered an apologetic smile. “I can’t tell you.”

I threw back my head and growled in frustration. He still didn’t trust me. Even after mechanical failures, partial nudity, and parking-lot rescues, he didn’t trust me enough to tell me what I’d been risking my neck to help him move cross-country.

“Fine,” I told him, storming away from the ravine. “I’m out of here.”

“Miranda!” he shouted, running after me. “Where are you going?”

“As far away from you as possible!” I yelled.

“Look at it this way. You don’t have to worry about telling Iris about the repairs.”

I glared at him.

“The wound is too fresh to joke?” he asked as I took a swing at him. He dodged out of the way, of course, and righted me when I nearly fell on my face. “Look, we’ll just find a motel, bunk down for the night, and call Iris in the morning to explain. I told you, I’ll take responsibility for the car.”

“No problem. We’ll find a motel that accepts magic beans as payment!” I whirled around on him. “Maybe you can tell futures out in the parking lot to pay our way.”

“What do you mean?” he asked, his brow furrowed.

Oh, right, Collin didn’t know we were broke.

“M-my purse,” I spluttered. “My purse was in the car, remember? We don’t have any cash, cards, nothing. You know, I thought maybe the worst you could do to me on this trip would be calling Iris and trying to get me fired, but clearly, I have underestimated you. I didn’t realize you would stoop to vehicular homicide to screw with me.”

“Miranda, that’s not fair. I didn’t do this to you.”

“No, but the aftereffects will still be the same,” I told him.

“Slow down, woman. What could you possibly do? You don’t have any cash. You don’t have any identification. How far do you think you’re going to get?”

I turned on him, snaking my hand into my bra. Collin frowned, perplexed about why I was feeling myself up. “Ha!” I exclaimed, pulling out a twenty-dollar bill I had tucked in the right cup. With the other hand, I presented my driver’s license, which had been nestled under my left breast. “And ha!”

He stared at me. “What—what else do you have in there?”

“Nothing. Well, not nothi—never mind. I always carry my driver’s license and extra cash in my bra.”

“Why?”

“Because of situations like this!” I yelled, throwing my arms wide. “These screwed-up worst-case scenarios that I seem to find myself in.” I pushed past him. “I’m done, do you hear me, Collin? Done. I’m done with you. I’m done with your stupid case. I quit!”

I turned on my heel and stomped off, the drizzling rain soaking through my clothes.

“Not like you care,” I grumbled petulantly. “You’ve got your case, right? You’re covered.”

He caught up to me without really trying. “Don’t do that. I could have gone for the case, but I pulled you out of the car before it fell over the cliff. So don’t pretend that I put this thing ahead of you.” He grabbed my arm—gently, I supposed, given his strength—and made me stop. My momentum threw me off-balance into his side. “And I do care about you. You force me to. Do you have any idea how uncomfortable it is to be induced to care about someone against your will?”

“Did you hit your head on your way down that ravine?” I demanded.

“You’re messy, and you’re loud and chaotic. And you’re kind. You have a profound sense of what’s right. You made me laugh, really laugh, for the first time in decades. I like the way you look at the world, the way it comes through in your photos. I love that you are a constant surprise. I’m two hundred sixty years old. Do you know how long it’s been since I was surprised by anything?”

“So you like me because I’m chaos,” I scoffed. “I am a walking tornado of destruction. That’s not exactly a profession of love.”

“Do you want one?” he asked, grinning at me and leaning in as if to sweep his mouth over mine.

“No.” I reached up and popped him on the nose like a misbehaving dog. I put my finger in his face. “Sorry, that was probably an overreaction. I’m just a little a wired. But really, do not even think about kissing me right now.”

“Ow!” he exclaimed. “I guess you don’t want one.”

I turned and walked down the road with purpose. “Didn’t see that one coming, did you?” I called over my shoulder.

He pinched his nose, testing it for broken cartilage. “No, I did not.”

GIMME SHELTER

9

The rain stopped, which was the only nice thing I could say about our long, silent walk to the nearest house. The road was broken and muddy, and the only thing that kept me from tripping or falling into ditches was Collin’s keen eyesight. He tried to help me, catching my elbow when it looked as if I might topple over, but I jerked away from him. I didn’t need his pity. I didn’t need his help. I needed him to get a time machine, so we could start this whole trip over again.

We walked until my ankles ached, finally finding a cozy little farmhouse with a green roof and yellow shutters. It looked like something out of a Thomas Kinkade painting. The kitchen light was on, but the rest of the house was dark. In the distance, cows lowed, and chickens made little night noises. As we cautiously approached the front steps, I snagged a tomato from the garden and ate it like an apple.

“OK, what’s the plan?” I asked as we closed in on the house. “Because a lot of scary movies and dirty jokes start out like this, and none of them bodes well for the lone female in this scenario.”

“What does your intuition tell you about the owner?” he asked.

“You’re the one with the gift, not me!” I whispered.

“You have a gift, too.” He put his hands on my shoulders and turned me toward the house. “I feel one heartbeat in that house. But I don’t know anything about the person inside. What do you see? What does the house tell you about this man?”

I shrugged him off, stepping away as I scanned the house and the yard. “There’s a truck in the driveway that’s used regularly, lots of road dust, wear on the tires. But that pretty little champagne-colored sedan has been sitting in the carport for a while. See where the pine pollen and debris have formed a sort of chalk outline around the car? The wash line is worn, but it’s sagging, as if no one has taken the time to wind it up tight for use in a while. The curtains in the kitchen window are in good condition but a couple of years out of date. And they’re dirty. Someone who used to care about these things recently stopped caring. There’s an empty case of beer by the garbage can, not to mention a bulk-size box of TV dinners. So I’m thinking the good farmer’s wife died a while ago, and he hasn’t had the heart to sell her car or take down the curtains. The bad news is that because he’s alone, if we move anything around, he’s much more likely to notice.”

“Very good.”

“But I could be wrong!” I insisted as we rounded the house, searching the backyard. “For all we know, she’s a lousy housekeeper on a visit to her sister’s, and he’s living it up, packing himself to the gills on beer and high-sodium TV dinners. Or he’s killed her, and her preserved body is tucked away in a rocking chair in the root cellar.”

“Still, I think it was a very good guess.”

“Don’t patronize me. I don’t know if it’s a good idea to show up at a stranger’s doorstep with a vampire in tow. He could be a maniac. He could be an antivampire activist. For all we know, he’s got silver stockpiled in there, and he’s just waiting for an opportunity to try it out. After the night we’ve had, I’m not willing to take any chances.”

“Would it make you feel any better if I tried to—”

“Scan the immediate future for my bloody, violent death via farm implement? Yes, it would.”

“Just don’t touch anything, or make any decisions, or move,” he said. He closed his eyes.

I pressed my lips together and crossed my arms. “So insulting.”

He closed his eyes as if concentrating, a line of frustration forming between his brows. After a few long, silent moments, he groaned. “I can’t tell!” he hissed. “I can’t tell what the best course of action is. Damn you and your wily ways, woman!”

“Oh, come on,” I said, chuckling. “I’m not that unpredictable.”

I sat on what looked like a wooden picnic table on the ground. It gave way beneath me, collapsing. I fell back, tumbling ass over teakettle down concrete stairs. I hit the earthen floor with a thud, whacking my head on a bag of feed corn.

“Ow,” I muttered, wiggling my fingers and toes to make sure I hadn’t done permanent damage.

There was a blur of motion, and suddenly Collin’s face was hovering over mine. “Are you OK? Does anything hurt?”

“My pride,” I groaned. “And my ass.” He helped me sit up. “You didn’t see a hint of that? Nothing?”

He shook his head.

“You’re trying not to laugh at me, aren’t you?”

He nodded.

“I hate you,” I moaned. “I hate you so much.”

“No, you don’t. You’re just upset with me.”

“I am, but I’ll get over it,” I grumbled, sitting up. “Eventually, I will understand you were trying to do something good. Your heart was in the right place, but your head was up your own ass.”

“That’s a memorable and disturbing image.”

I’d apparently fallen through the unlocked external doors of the farmer’s root cellar. The farmer used this room as a storage space/storm shelter/winter pantry. Rows of carefully preserved green beans, peaches, and applesauce lined the shelves. I took a plastic gallon jug of distilled water and twisted it open, draining much of it in one long, blissful pull. My eyes landed on a first-aid kit and then the camping lamp hanging over our heads. Collin reached for it and tried to open the little glass cylinder.

“You don’t light it,” I told him, flicking the little switch on top.

“Interesting.” He scanned the little windowless room, with its low ceiling and bare earthen walls. “Rather homey, isn’t it? Clean, roomy, no instruments of death lying about. We can always just sleep here for the day.”

“Yeah, it will be great, until the farmer decides he needs a jar of pickled beets tomorrow afternoon, opens the door, and then you’re a little pile of dust.”

“Have a little faith.”

“Really, Collin, why don’t you just run ahead or something? You can cover the distance in a night, right? I’ll be fine. I’ll get home on my own.”

“Because I’m a vampire, not a cheetah,” he told me. “I can’t run that fast or far. And second, I’m not leaving you behind. If I arrive without you, your employer will know we had trouble.”

“I think she’ll notice when I show up without her car.”

“I’ll take full responsibility for the car. She can’t be angry with you over something a client did.”

“Your sudden bout of cockeyed optimism is annoying. Besides, say we survive the day undetected, then what?” I asked. “We find a phone, call Iris, and beg her for bus fare?”

“We’ll find a way,” he assured me, lifting my face to meet his gaze. “I promise you. We’ll find a way to get home without getting you into trouble. Come on, woman! Where’s the girl who showed up at my door three nights ago? The girl who called me a piece of work and reminded me I had no way of getting home except for her car? She would scoff at this little travel … hiccup. Sleeping in a root cellar with a vampire. It’s child’s play. I would think it would appeal to your perverse sense of adventure.”

“You’re right. I should make the best of—hey! What do you mean, perverse?”

Collin began rooting around for materials that we could fashion into a bed. I secured the door with an ax handle, then started searching through the pantry contents.

“This feels really wrong,” I told him as he shaped a pile of empty feedsacks into a makeshift bed. “As if we’re haunting this poor man’s basement.”

I cracked the wax seal of one of the jars and carefully picked out a few slices of fruit from the fragrant liquid with my fingers.

“What are you doing?”

“In the name of not starving, I am appropriating this jar of spiced peaches. Consider it the sweet course after the tomato entrée. My concerns about thievery decrease in proportion to my concerns about low blood sugar and dry heaves. Also, this stuff is fricking delicious.”

He was watching me scooping the delicious, pulpy fruit from the jar and sucking the juice from my fingers. I cringed, knowing that this must be sending his OCD into overdrive.

“Sorry. I’m being rude. What about your blood?” I asked. “It went down with the ship, so to speak. Aren’t you hungry?”

“I should be all right for a few more hours.”

“And then we’re going to have to find some willing donor?” I asked. “Or some synthetic?”

“Unless you’re offering.”

Now, normally, I would consider it pretty damn rude to devour half a jar of spiced fruit in front of a starving man without offering him a meal. But I was still a little sore about the events of the evening. And I’d never served as a vampire meal before. So I was going to have to sleep on it.

I stripped out of my wet jacket and did my best to comb through my damp hair with my fingers. I checked my watch. We had at least another hour before sunrise, but it was good that we were settling in for the night. Day. Whatever. When I looked up, Collin was stepping out of his pressed gray trousers.

“What are you doing?” I whisper-hissed, careful not to make too much noise and wake up our host upstairs. He folded the trousers carefully, the light of the camping lamp reflecting off his pale skin. His extremely pinchable butt was beautifully draped by black boxer briefs. I shielded my eyes with my hand, as if the sight were offensive.

“I usually sleep naked.”

“Every time you get out of the cubby, you’re wearing a suit. Nice try.”

He smirked. “It was worth a shot.”

“Keep the boxers on,” I warned him. “If your next line is that you want to share body heat, I’m not above smacking you while you sleep.” Against the sliver of lamplight, I saw his lips quirk.

“Why did you have to choose tonight to develop a sense of humor?” I grumbled as I lay down on the feedsack bed. It was surprisingly comfortable, a little like sleeping on a giant buckwheat pillow. Collin settled in beside me, on his side, smiling at me.

I turned away from him, content to let him stare at my back.

“Good night, Miranda,” he said, touching my shoulder gently.

“Good night,” I mumbled, snuggling deeper into the feedsack as he clicked the lamp switch.

In the dark, I listened to the house settling over us and finally processed the fact that I was utterly and completely fucked. My stomach felt as if it was turning inside out. I didn’t love Jason anymore, but I was entitled to a few tears. I was humiliated and sick, thinking of all of the lies I’d believed, all of the concessions I’d made. I’d let too much of myself go to please Jason. If anything, my time on the road had shown me how much more comfortable I was in my own skin when I was my unkempt, uncouth self.

I was confused, but it was the good kind of confused. Yes, I was a mess, out here on my own. But at least I was having fun—or what passed for fun when I wasn’t murdering innocent vehicles. I didn’t want normal. I didn’t want predictable. I didn’t want the life Jason and I were going to build together. How stupid was it that I’d made so much effort to create a life that I didn’t want?

I was baffled by possibilities, the right and wrong of them. I was excited about the choices ahead of me. And it felt as if no matter what I did, it would be better than going back to Jason.

Still, listening to the mating call of the Not So Platonic Friends had singed my pride.

And I was going to be fired. Again. There was no way Iris would forgive this. Even if Collin had been driving, Iris couldn’t keep someone on if she’d lost an entire car on her first assignment. It set a bad precedent. But I liked the job. That was the bitch of it. I liked the challenge of getting from point A to point B. I liked the daily race to meet my mileage goal, even if I missed it. I liked being able to stop and take pictures of whatever caught my eye, just for the hell of it.

I’d finally found something I truly enjoyed, and I was going to be fired before I really got started. At least at the other jobs, I’d had a few months before my spectacular failures.

Warm tears dripped down my cheeks. I held my breath, willing the oxygen to slip quietly in and out of my nose so Collin wouldn’t hear me sniffle. As angry as I was, I knew that he couldn’t grasp what he’d done in the name of helping me. He was sincere in his apology, and he felt bad—as much as he was capable of feeling guilty. I didn’t want to make him feel worse.

I pressed my hands into my eyes, my shoulders shaking with the effort to stay quiet. Two cool hands slid around my wrists, pulling them away from my face. Collin wrapped his arm around me, pulling me to his chest. I pressed my face into the curve of his neck, feeling my tears form a seal between my skin and his. He rubbed his hands over my back, fingertips dancing along my spine as I cried it out. Soft shushing noises were the only sound in the dark little room.

In the dark, I traced my fingers over the proud line of his nose, his eyelids, his cheekbones. He bent to kiss me, cool lips sliding against my warmth. He tasted clean, of mint and spice. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. I was falling through the black space of the room, and Collin was the only thing holding me to reality.

This was a mistake, a huge mistake. I was using sex with someone else to get back at Jason or get over him or just get him out of my system. I doubted that Collin would mind being used. He might be fond of me in the moment, but I wasn’t a blip on his screen. He would leave his indestructible silver case in the Hollow and go home—most likely on a train—and forget all about me. I would be left with nothing again.

But when he shifted my hips so that my thighs rested on either side of his, I just couldn’t bring myself to care. He unbuttoned my shirt, pushing it back from my shoulders, and whispered kisses down the length of my collarbone. I rose to my knees, wrapping my arms around his neck as I ground down on the growing bulge in his lap.

He nibbled down to the swell of my breasts, tracing the top of each mound with his canines while I unbuttoned his shirt. He pushed me back on the improvised mattress and crouched over me, his eyes shining unnaturally even in the low light. The key hanging from his neck swayed against my chest with a solid plink. He seemed to be considering me, as if I was a particularly delectable dessert and he couldn’t decide where to dive in first. He dragged his tongue along my bare ankle, up my shin to my kneecap. When he reached my Smurf panties, he pressed his open mouth to the damp cotton.

He moved up, taking one taut nipple into his mouth, smiling against my flesh. I tossed my head back, arching into him as I threaded my fingers through his hair. He settled between my thighs, dragging his lips across my throat, and his hand slipped under my waistband. He slid two fingers inside me, plunging in, twisting up to nudge at that mysterious, pleasurable spot.

My Smurf panties joined the pile of clothes on the floor. I cried out and bucked my hips as he plunged again. His hips surged forward and spread my thighs farther apart. I wrapped my free leg over his hip as he entered me in one swift stroke. I yelped at the pleasant stretching sensation. The noise seemed to bounce off the rough wooden ceiling and echo throughout the house.

“Shh.” He chuckled, pointing over our heads. I bit down on his shoulder, and he nuzzled his face against my neck.

Collin kissed me as he moved again, thrusting gently at first, then building, as I angled my hips in time with his. He tipped his forehead to mine and slid home again. I gasped. Lifting my ass off the bed, he drove into me. His fangs slid out as he threw his head back and moaned. My breasts bounced with every heave of his body over mine. His hand slipped over my collarbone, up my throat, and over my lips. I pulled his fingers into my mouth, sucking the tips as he moved in and out, up and down.

He pulled me up, into his lap, grinding our hips together as he guided me over him. He ran the tip of his nose down the length of my cheek, his lips skimming after. Light pressure pinched at my jawline, and fingers slipped around the nape of my neck, securing my head in place as he tilted it back. His tongue worked teasing little circles along my skin.

His lips closed over my jugular, and there was the barest hint of pressure … and then … bliss. He drew against the wound, the blood seeming to flow up directly from between my thighs, through my chest, and into his mouth.

I shuddered and stilled, unable to process all of the sensations needling at my brain. He rocked his hips, sending his rigid length against my warmth. My breath caught, and I snagged my fingers through his hair, pressing his face against my neck.

Over his shoulder, I could see the faintest outline of light around the edges of the cellar door. Collin’s movements were more languid, gentle, as the rhythm continued—draw, rock, draw, rock—until I was riding him slow and firm as he licked the twin puncture wounds at my throat. I felt the first flutters of orgasm and cried out with the force of it. Collin pulled me to him with bone-crushing force as he followed me, crashing back against the rough burlap bags.

Collin rearranged us carefully, settling me against his chest, kissed me one last time on the forehead, and promptly passed out.

PWNED IN THE PAWN SHOP

10

I woke up with a vampire snuggled around my waist.

That was a new entry in the “Bizarre Miranda Experiences” annals.

I squinted up at the still-sealed cellar door and saw that the scant light around the edge had gone pink. The sun would be setting soon.

I scooted off the bed, no small feat with Collin’s arms wrapped around my middle. It was a “coyote ugly” situation, except that my partner was quite attractive but technically dead. After tugging and pulling for nearly ten minutes, I finally managed to pry myself loose and rolled off the feedsacks and onto my face. I slid into my creased, soiled jeans and shirt, wincing as I made my way up the cellar stairs.

Clearly, the next time I had sex with a vampire, I was going to need to stretch first.

Outside, I heard a truck engine gunning. I removed the ax handle and lifted the cellar door just a fraction. Peeking out, I saw the farmer’s truck ambling down the gravel driveway.

The neat little yard was bathed in dusky twilight. I eyed the little champagne-colored sedan enviously, but I knew that I wouldn’t be able to take it. Particularly with those cheerful little garden gnomes glaring at me from the neglected flower beds. I was a lot of things, but I wasn’t a thief. And even if I’d only been guessing the night before, and the good farmer’s wife had run off with the mailman, I wouldn’t be able to stand the idea that I’d taken a reminder from the man who owned this house.

In the picture I’d formed in my head, they’d been happy together. They’d lived a long life filled with happy holidays, grandchildren, and long chatty breakfasts, and now the farmer was patiently biding his time until he could see her again.

When I got home, I’d have to remove The Notebook from my Netflix queue. Clearly, the repeat viewings were messing with my head.

I looked back at Collin’s sleeping form. I was cautiously optimistic about what had happened the night before. I enjoyed Collin. I enjoyed spending time with him. And he seemed amused, if not intrigued, by my ability to sow destruction wherever I went. Maybe he would be interested in pursuing some sort of relationship when this was all over. Was I in love with him? Not yet. But I wanted more than a “friends with benefits” arrangement.

I wanted to know that if I came home at the end of a long day, I could call him and laugh with him over my latest misadventure. I wanted to tell someone how I really felt, not just the things my family and friends wanted to hear but my real fears and desires … things I’d already shared with him after knowing him for only three days.

For the first time in my life, I wanted someone I could really share my life with. I hadn’t had that with Jason. I couldn’t let him see what I was really like, the hair that took two hours to straighten, the clothes I’d ruined with darkroom chemicals, the gecko tattoo that I’d let my freshman roommate give me on a dare. But Collin would probably find those stories funny as hell.

I plucked at the chain around my neck and suddenly knew how we were going to get home.

After clicking on the camping lamp I searched the shelves for breakfast. As delicious as they were, I didn’t think I could handle another jar of spiced peaches. I selected what looked like a jar of apple-pie filling and popped the top, carefully sliding the contents into my mouth. It was ambrosial, especially when paired with the lovely domestic distilled water. I ate half the jar while I tried to make out the rest of the dimly lit room. It seemed to be used strictly for feed storage and storm supplies. The only boxes I could make out stood in the corner. I took up the camping lamp and edged closer to them. In neat block print, the box was labeled, “MAEVIS, CLOTHES, GOODWILL.”

I glanced down at my wrinkled, stained clothes and wondered whether Maevis would begrudge me a fresh outfit. With my luck, stealing a dead woman’s clothes would result in a hell of a haunting. But I balanced that against the thought of wearing these jeans another day and decided that I was willing to risk it. I opened the box to find an array of church dresses, housecoats, khaki pants, and mom jeans. There was a beautiful bottle-green double-knit suit in my size, but the idea of taking what was probably Maevis’s best dress in her prime shamed me. I picked a more casual red-and-white check dress with a wide, pointed white collar. It was the sort of dress I could see Maevis wearing to a Sunday picnic. Unfortunately, I had to wear my boots with it, which ruined the effect.

I reached the bottom of the box and had to bite my lip to keep from laughing. The farmer was also donating some vacation clothes to Goodwill. I cast an evil glance my vampire’s way. From the looks of them, they’d fit Collin perfectly.

“Come on,” I called from the farmer’s front door. “We have to get moving before he comes back!”

Collin’s muffled voice came floating up from the cellar. “I look ridiculous.”

“I look like Lucille Ball’s manly cousin,” I yelled back. “It can’t be that bad.”

I opened up the little mailbox labeled “McGregor” near the door. Despite the fact that it was the only cash I had on hand, I left my last remaining twenty-dollar bill inside, where Mr. McGregor was sure to find it. It eased my conscience a bit for helping ourselves to his food and clothes.

Collin emerged in an orange and blue Hawaiian shirt, his long swimmer’s legs sticking out of blue plaid Bermuda shorts. I ruthlessly pinched my lips together to keep my braying laugh from escaping. He looked like a pale, pissed-off tourist. “Do you have any idea what happened to my clothes while I was sleeping?”

Currently, his pants were at the bottom of the burn barrel near the garage. And the scarecrow had received a brand-new hand-tailored shirt. “I couldn’t find them when I woke up,” I said, my eyes as wide and innocent as a baby seal’s. “Maybe a barn cat took them?”

“A barn cat?” he repeated, raising his eyebrow. “A barn cat that managed to get through the barred cellar door, take my clothes—my clothes only, mind you—and then escape unnoticed while we slept?”

“A very strong, very selective barn cat,” I said, shrugging my shoulders. “We’re just lucky I found these clothes in the Goodwill box.”

“Hmph.” He sniffed. “A vindictive little kitten who is still angry about an obliterated car, more like.”

I grabbed his hand and led him down the gravel drive toward the highway. “Don’t be silly. What sort of kitten has a car?”

The walk into town was long and arduous, but the sky was clear and the moon full. Collin told me stories about his marches with the king’s army, trekking through what the British soldiers saw as the ends of the earth. We made good time, with Collin carrying me on his back for the last two miles. He was worried about me being too tired and insisted that it was payment for drinking my blood the night before without express permission.

“We haven’t talked about the events of last night, by the way,” he said, tickling my knees a bit while he adjusted my weight over his back.

“I don’t think I’m ready to,” I admitted. “I’m not saying I regret it, because I absolutely don’t. But I’d like to wait until we’ve finished this before we tackle something as heavy as the Talk.”

“Why do I get the feeling that, in your head, that’s ‘Talk’ with a capital T?”

“Because you’re psychic,” I said, grinning cheekily. “And a discussion involving words like ‘feelings’ and ‘commitment’ deserves a capitalized title.” He shuddered beneath my hands. “I felt that.”

We arrived on the outskirts of a town called Hader’s Knob, which, it turned out, was in Missouri and only three hours away from the Hollow. We were fortunate to find just what I was looking for in the seedier part of said outskirts. In a town called Hader’s Knob, there were bound to be seedy outskirts.

“A pawn shop?” Collin asked as I led him down Canal Street toward Golden Scales Pawn. “But we don’t have anything to pawn.”

I lifted my chain from around my neck, dangling my engagement ring for him to see.

“No,” he insisted. “You can’t mean to sell your engagement ring.”

“Why not?” I asked. “We need bus fare. I am not going to marry Jason or anybody, really, unless my parents have arranged some sort of proxy marriage … which I probably shouldn’t mention around them, because it might give them ideas. Legally, Jason broke the engagement, so the ring is mine. Either way, it would hurt me a lot more to miss our deadline tonight than it will to sell this ring. So into the pawn shop I go.”

“Just you?”

“Yes,” I told him as we neared the shop entrance. “I’d like to handle this on my own. It’s a closure thing.”

He smoothed my hair back from my face. “Is this one of those mysteries I will never comprehend because I was born a lowly male?”

“You used the word ‘lowly,’ not me,” I called over my shoulder as I pushed the door open.

Everything that seems sketchy about pawn shops from the outside is doubly true on the inside. You can almost feel the desperation and broken dreams dripping off the merchandise. I was glad that Collin was outside. Lord knows what he would have picked up, vision-wise. I wound my way to the counter through displays of used laptops, weird random “art,” and, most heartbreaking of all, a row of kids’ bikes.

A large bear of a man with a shiny bald head leaned against the counter, poring over a comic book. His tidy black polo had a shiny gold shop logo embroidered over a well-built chest. I didn’t know whether I should be comforted or intimidated by his size, so I settled for clearing my throat politely. The man looked up from his Archie comic and smiled.

“How can I help you, hon?” he asked kindly. His head shimmered in the greenish fluorescent lights. I wondered idly if he waxed it to achieve such a sheen. He gave me a small smile and pulled a soft maroon cloth out of his display case. I guessed he knew that I was going to pawn jewelry, since I didn’t have anything else on me. I wasn’t carrying so much as a purse.

I stayed frozen to my spot, unable to step forward somehow. I knew I couldn’t keep the ring, didn’t want to, really. But selling it seemed so final. It made me a little sad to think of Jason’s family heirloom sitting in a pawn shop in the middle of nowhere. But I had to sell this stupid ring. I could not spend the rest of my life in a town called Hader’s Knob.

“I won’t bite, I promise.”

I fiddled with the chain around my neck. “I’m sorry. I’ve never done this before.”

“That’s OK, this time of night. We call it the ‘Bad Decision’ shift. Let me see what you’ve got.”

I pulled the chain over my head, because snapping one off your neck is not as easy as it looks in movies. And I handed it to the clerk.

“Are you looking to sell or pawn?” he asked, holding the ring up to the light.

“Sell. I don’t really want to see it again.”

He frowned, taking out a jeweler’s loupe. “Let’s take a closer look here.”

I took the chain and stuck it into my dress pocket. Already, I felt a weight lifted from my shoulder. I wondered why I’d held on to the ring for so long, why I’d agreed to take it back in the first place. Maybe I should send Jason the remaining balance after we paid for the bus tickets, I thought. Surely we would have some cash left.

With his jeweler’s loupe still in place, the clerk looked up at me and grimaced. “Hon, I’ve got some bad news for you.”

“Did I damage the setting?” I asked. “I haven’t exactly been vigilant about getting it cleaned or inspected.”

“Since you broke off your engagement?” he asked. I nodded. “And your fiancé told you this was a diamond?”

I nodded. Wait, did he say “told you”?

I closed my eyes and waited for the verbal blow. “What is it?”

He grimaced, placing the ring in my hand. “What you have here is a high-quality cubic zirconia.”

“Would you excuse me for a minute?” I asked through a tight smile. He nodded sympathetically.

I walked out the front door, to where Collin was waiting for me. He opened his mouth to ask a question, but I held up a finger. “You ASSHOLE!” I yelled. “Dirty, rotten, low-down PRICK!”

Collin’s eyes widened to the size of saucers, and he rushed toward me, glaring over my shoulder as if the shop was harboring some sort of junk-selling deviant.

“I’m fine,” I promised him. “Just give me a minute.”

I walked back into the shop, my fingernails biting little half-moons into my palms. “I’m sorry. I’m better now. Clearly, I was given some high-end Cracker Jack prize. So please explain to me how it didn’t turn my finger green or fall apart in the last year.”

“Oh, well, the band is fourteen-karat gold,” he assured me. “See this little mark on the inside of the band?” He held it up so I could see the tiny “JM” stamped into the metal. “That means it came from Jewelry Mart. Your fiancé probably bought a costume ring off of a home-shopping network and had the ‘stone’ reset in a respectable band.”

The pawn clerk reached across the counter and patted my hand. “If it makes you feel any better, this happens here a couple of times a week.”

“No.” I opened my eyes, fighting off hot, angry tears. “Sadly, that does not make me feel better.”

I walked out of the shop with two hundred dollars in my pocket. I was sure that the clerk overpaid me for the scrap gold of the setting, but he probably wanted to get me out of his shop as quickly as possible. Surely having a woman pitch the fit of a small emotionally disturbed child in front of the counter had to be bad for business.

Collin was hovering outside the shop door, his expression anxious. “I take it you did not get the price you expected.”

“You could say that,” I said, sitting heavily on the concrete curb, my skirt flapping up in my face.

“Are you all right, Miranda?” he said, crouching beside me in his silly plaid shorts as I tucked my skirt around my legs.

“Damn it, just—damn it!” I exclaimed, springing to my feet. “His mother never liked me. She said I was too flighty and frivolous because I thought it might be fun to go camping on our honeymoon, instead of the traditional Cordner trip to Niagara Falls. Who wants to take the same honeymoon that their parents took? I mean, most people would recognize that’s pretty damn creepy!”

“Miranda, please, calm down. Translate for me.”

I thrust out the four fifties I’d gotten from the pawn clerk for the gold setting. “It was a fake.”

“Your fiancé gave you a fake engagement ring?” he said, incredulous.

“High-quality cubic zirconia, according to the clerk. I should have known. He went on and on about how he’d found it at this great little jewelry store in Louisville the last time he was there. But he knew he was giving me a fake! His mother probably told him that I couldn’t be trusted with the real thing. All that fussing, all that handing the ring back and forth, and it never really mattered, because it was a hunk of nothing!”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, no, I was waiting for an opportunity to reach a whole new level of humiliation, so this is great,” I griped, walking out of the parking lot. “I don’t get it, Collin.” I stopped, whirling on him. Collin nimbly sidestepped me while I ranted. “I am, by nature, a pretty cynical person. I wore silver jewelry around you for the first twenty-four hours, just in case you decided to get frisky. So how does someone go through life not trusting the people around her and still get screwed!”

“You wore silver jewelry for the first day we were together?”

“Just some rings and a bracelet. Nothing personal. I just didn’t know you,” I said, swiping at my eyes before the tears could form embarrassing tracks on my cheeks. “And you know what hurts? If he’d just told me it was a fake, I wouldn’t have cared. If he’d said he was giving me a stand-in ring until he could afford more, or as a backup to my real engagement ring, I wouldn’t have even blinked. Hell, I might have thanked him for not putting me in the position of destroying/losing/garbage-disposaling a priceless piece of jewelry. I’m just—”

I sighed, wiping my cheeks again. “I’m tired of being the fool. So please, please, do me a favor, and if you’re planning to trick me or lie to me or somehow make a giant ass of me in some fashion, just warn me ahead of time so I can prepare the appropriate face. I’m getting tired of making this one.”

“I can’t lie to you,” he assured me as we turned in the direction of Euclid Avenue, where the clerk had told me to look for the bus station. “I’m terrified of you, you crazed, hyperviolent hoyden.”

“I have a feeling that when I look up ‘hoyden’ in the dictionary, I’m going to be really pissed at you.”

The Hader’s Knob bus station was a short walk through a rough part of town. The houses were run-down and dark. The cars were rusted-out and seemed abandoned rather than parked. I dodged piles of broken beer bottles on the sidewalk. I wasn’t worried about us being attacked, because, frankly, Collin could use a snack. He seemed uncomfortable with my silence, unsure whether I was plotting revenge against him in the name of the Batmobile or Jason’s viciously executed testicular “downsizing.”

He kept squeezing my elbow, as if he was trying to gauge my temper or prompt one of his visions. He even followed me into the bus station, staying close as I purchased two tickets to go as far as we could get—Marion, Illinois. There was a bus leaving in the next twenty minutes, which gave me just enough time to take advantage of the bathroom and buy a suspicious-looking turkey sandwich from a vending machine.

“Are we going to be OK?” I asked, eyeing the bus meaningfully as we boarded. “No tire blow-outs or mechanical failures to worry about? No terrorist plots that will result in my being used as a human shield?”

He stepped away from me and stared off into space. A frustrated look passed over his features, and he stepped even farther away.

“We should be fine. Probably … Most likely …” But by the time we boarded, Collin was practically quaking. Even though I was standing right next to him, his proximity to this many people in such a small space had his gift on overload. He saw everything, every possibility, every choice and its consequences. The whirlwind of images must have been nauseating.

“Too loud?” I asked. He nodded, his eyes squinched tight. I slipped my hand into his and thought of all of the hijinks I could get up to on the bus, picking a fight with my fellow travelers, chewing gum while I was trying to fall asleep, having it stick in my hair or choking on it. My personal brand of chaos worked its magic, drowning out the weak, humdrum hijinks of the other passengers. Slowly but surely, the tension bled from Collin’s face, and he was able to relax.

“Thank you,” he said, pressing a kiss to my temple. “Please don’t let go.”

We held hands in the aisle, even if it meant struggling to maneuver around the people slinging bags into the overhead compartments. We settled into our seats, and Collin wedged his case against his legs. Shuddering at the crowd’s potential fates, he leaned his forehead against my shoulder.

The little old lady sitting across the aisle from us glared at him, her dentures flashing. “She’s allowed to walk on her own, sonny. You don’t have to keep ahold of her.”

Collin’s jaw dropped, and his hold on my hand tightened.

“It’s his first time on the bus,” I assured her. “He gets carsick. He’s just a little nervous.”

“Never could stand a clingy fella.” She sniffed. “Grow a pair, sonny.”

To keep from laughing, I bit my lip so hard that it bled. He leaned in and licked the wound closed for me. The bus started and rolled forward. We got comfortable in our worn leatherette seats. I rested my chin on his shoulder and whispered, “You know what I’ve noticed? People don’t like you.”

“I’m very likable!” he protested.

I looked over to the old lady, who was shaking her head.

“I like you,” I assured him. “I like you very much.”

“Well, that’s a comfort,” he said, pouting slightly. I leaned forward and caught his lip between mine, biting down. He groaned, pushing me back slightly. I could hear the little old lady chuckling.

Just then, the headrest of the seat in front of me slammed back, whacking me in the temple. “Oof! Really?” I griped. “Before the bus even pulls out?”

“I paid for the seat, lady,” groused the mountain of a man sitting in the seat in front of mine. “Deal with it.”

Collin’s fangs snicked out, but I squeezed his hand and shook my head. He put the fangs away and settled for glowering at the back of the man’s head.

Unfortunately, the giant pile of misanthrope sitting in front of me didn’t limit himself to rearranging my face with his headrest. For the next hour, the poor woman next to him had to hear his opinions on the health-care crisis, the economy, and “kids today” and how the current president was responsible for it all. And vampires. And any other minority you could think of. All in a loud foghorn voice that reminded me of my uncles after a few beers.

“I’m going to kill him just to shut him up,” Collin muttered.

“I’ll help you hide the body,” I promised.

The braying political commentator finally quieted, and I saw his seatmate’s shoulders relax. He stood to get something out of the overhead bin. As he moved, the zipper from his jacket whipped against my face. I winced, rubbing my hand over my cheek. Collin arched his eyebrow as my fingers snaked up. When the jerk sat back down, I had the contents of his wallet—two twenties and a handful of ones—crumpled into my palm.

Collin’s mouth popped open. “What are you—”

I shushed him gently, waiting for the woman in front of us to lean toward the window. When her head turned, I slipped my hand through the gap in the seats and dropped the cash into her breast pocket. I considered it hazard pay. The loud guy plopped back into his seat, none the wiser.

Collin whispered, “Morlock the Magician?”

I smirked. “I was always good with sleight-of-hand. Birds, not so much.”

“I’m continually amazed by the skills you have picked up along your way. What will you take away from your time with me, I wonder?”

“A profound fear of ravines and root cellars,” I muttered.

“The root cellar wasn’t all bad,” he murmured.

“A commitment to carry an industrial-sized can of anti-automotive-boob touch-up paint in every car I drive?”

He squeezed my hand. “I would hope that wouldn’t happen to any person more than once.”

“A distrust of any man bearing jewelry, family heirloom or otherwise?”

He chuckled. “I will remember you said that when we reach a gift-giving occasion.”

I shot him an incredulous look. He expected us to reach a gift-giving occasion? He said “when,” not “if.” He planned to spend more time with me. I tamped down the excited butterflies swooping through my belly. I didn’t know how to respond, what to say. So I just smiled and kept his hand clasped in mine. I kept him entertained with observations about our fellow passengers for the three-hour ride.

“When we arrive in the Hollow, what are your plans?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “A lot depends on how Iris reacts to her car being vaporized.”

“I told you, I’ll take responsibility for the car,” he said. “Do you think you would be interested—”

The driver’s voice boomed over the PA. “Folks, we are five minutes away from our stop in lovely downtown St. Louis. Please remember to stay seated until the bus comes to a complete stop. Standing to reach items in the overhead compartment can result in fallen luggage and cranky seatmates.”

I smiled slightly. “Would I be interested in what?”

“Driving me back home?” he asked sheepishly. “I don’t think I would trust anyone else with my safety.”

“Well, that’s just sad.”

FRIENDSHIPS SHOULDN’T BE FORMED IN PARKING LOTS

11

Marion, Illinois, was home to one of the highest-security prisons in the country. The inmate Hall of Fame included Noriega, John Gotti, and, most chillingly, Pete Rose. Needless to say, I was a little bit nervous when the driver unceremoniously dropped us at a bus depot five miles from the prison. Knowing my luck, there would be a jailbreak, and I would end up cannon fodder in some sort of standoff. I stuck close to Collin’s side as we exited the squat little concrete building marked “DEP T.” I think someone had stolen the O.

“How much time do we have?” I asked.

“Two hours until midnight,” he said. “What now?”

“I was really hoping you had some ideas,” I told him. “I am fresh out.”

The depot parking lot was dimly lit by badly maintained streetlamps, casting long shadows over the handful of cars parked there. In the far corner of the lot, a tall man with dirty-blond hair was leaning against the side of a dark blue El Camino, talking on his cell phone. On his bumper was a large blue and white sticker that read, “Howl, Half-Moon Howlers, Howl!” I edged a bit closer and saw that the bottom of his license plate read, “McClure County.”

“No way.” I laughed. “He’s from Half-Moon Hollow!”

Collin drew his brows up. “Yes, and you seem very excited about it.”

“We could ask him for a ride,” I said, pulling Collin behind a partition outside the station so we could watch the man discreetly.

“Are you serious?” he scoffed. “You’re nervous driving past a prison, but you’re willing to solicit a ride from a stranger?”

“Don’t say ‘solicit.’ It makes it sound dirty. And something good has to happen tonight, right? What are the odds of someone from the Hollow parking right outside the bus depot when we happen to get off the bus? It’s like a sign. And I don’t even believe in signs.”

“You can’t be serious!” he exclaimed. “What happened to being annoyed by cockeyed optimism?”

“This is more like reckless desperation,” I said. “We’re out of options, unless you’re open to the idea of grand theft auto. We’ve come too far to give up now, Collin. If I backed away, could you get an idea of whether it would work out?”

He nodded, and I made myself busy with the barely functioning soda machine near the door. When I came back, sipping a tepid Coke, Collin was frowning.

“Not him,” he insisted.

“Why not him?”

“He’s a vampire.”

“So are you.”

“But I’m a trustworthy vampire. He’s decidedly … untrustworthy,” he said, glaring in the direction of the El Camino. “Back-alley deals and seedy connections.”

“But no violent tendencies or dead hookers in his trunk?”

“No,” he conceded. “But it’s an El Camino. He doesn’t have a trunk.”

“I’ll be fine, I’m sure. You’ll be right there with me, right?”

“I will, but not where he can see,” Collin grumbled. “If you’re alone, he’ll be more likely to help you. I don’t know if that makes me trust him more or less.”

“So what are you going to do?” I asked.

“You’ll see,” he said. “Just play up your ability to find trouble in an empty room. It will remind him of someone and make him more sympathetic to your plight. I’ll be right behind you. Signal me if you get the least bit uncomfortable.”

“Thank you,” I said as he pecked me on the lips.

“I think this is a terrible idea,” he told me.

“I appreciate your candor. Now, shut the hell up and get out of sight.”

As I approached, the blond vampire shut his cell phone with a curse. I slumped my shoulders and did my best to look beaten and defeated. It wasn’t difficult. I wrung my hands as I approached the car, letting my nervous energy carry me forward, and pitched my voice in a distressed octave.

“Hi. You wouldn’t be from Half-Moon Hollow, would you?”

The vampire’s eyebrow arched. “Are you Frankie’s girl?”

“No. Should I be?”

He huffed out a frustrated growl. “Look, honey, I don’t mean to be rude. But I’m waiting for a guy. Probably would be better if you weren’t here when he shows up.”

“That would be difficult, since I don’t have any way to go … elsewhere. I’m pretty much stuck here without a way home. I was hoping you might be heading back there tonight?”

His mouth was pinched and annoyed, but the sea-water green eyes were soft and just a little concerned. Collin was right; this guy was a marshmallow inside. I launched into my diatribe, letting just a little bit of tear-stained hysteria creep into my voice. “Look, I’m from the Hollow, too. And I hate to ask this of you, but I need a ride home. I got stranded with this guy, and he’s just—gone. He disappeared. Now I’m flat broke, and my car’s in little bitty pieces at the bottom of a ravine, which is OK, because that means I don’t have to explain the boobs on the hood. And there was a washed-out bridge and a scissor-happy hotel clerk and rednecks with silver chains. And I just really need someone to help me. Could you see it in your heart to help out a damsel in distress?”

The green eyes widened, and there was just the hint of a smirk at the corners of his mouth. “Look, sweetheart, about five years ago, I would have eaten you up, but I’m happily married now. I don’t bite and bang anymore—”

“No, no!” I exclaimed, raising my hands. “I really just need a ride.”

He stared at me for a long while, considering. “Just a ride,” he repeated sternly. “No funny business.”

“You can search me for silver if you want to.”

“I’ll do that,” he promised. Behind us, I heard the crackle of tires rolling over gravel. Another car was pulling into the parking lot. The vampire opened the door for me. “Why don’t you get into the car and wait here? Stay down. If you hear anything, you need to get out and run.”

I froze, and he nudged me none too gently toward the car. “What?”

“There’s a small matter of business I need to conduct,” he said. “And my contact was supposed to be here hours ago. Now that he’s here, it could get ugly.”

“Wait, wait, what sort of business are you into?” I demanded.

“Beggars can’t be choosers, sweetheart. Get in the car,” he said, shoving me.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Dick Cheney,” he said with a wink. “Pleased to meet you, Jinx.”

“What, like the vice president?” I asked as Dick slammed the door behind me. I peered over my shoulder and saw him flank the approaching car.

In the shadows, by the soda machine, I could see Collin. His face was pinched and worried as he observed this new development. His eyes locked with mine, and he mouthed, “Stay down.”

I slumped down in the seat at the sound of Dick’s raised voice. He was cursing vehemently, and I heard something about “counterfeit Snuggies” and “connections in South America.” There were grunts and groans as blows were exchanged, and the car lurched forward when someone was thrown against the bumper. I shrieked and covered my head with my arms.

The door opened, and Dick tossed a heavy duffel bag into my lap. He started the engine and gunned it, smashing into the car parked behind us. I shrieked, clicking my seatbelt into place as Dick wheeled the car around and slung my weight against the door. I saw a flash of orange and blue in the side mirror just before Dick sped out of the parking lot. There was a light thump, and I saw Collin’s hand waving at me in the mirror.

While Dick ranted into his cell phone at a guy named Ralphie, I kept my head down and my eye on the clock. Dick’s Dukes of Hazzard–style driving meant we were making pretty good time down the interstate toward the Hollow. But whoever Dick had argued with wasn’t following us, so he slowed down outside the city limits. Dick hung up with a final, “No, it’s coming out of your share!” and shot an apologetic look my way.

“Sorry, hon. Believe it or not, that turned out better than I expected.”

“So your business … does this happen a lot in your line of work?”

“Ever since my wife asked me to try to keep on the ‘lighter’ side of the line, yes,” he said. “No one seems to take me seriously anymore. That deal back there? That was for counterfeit University of Kentucky–themed Snuggies.”

“I can see how that would make it hard to maintain street cred,” I told him.

He frowned, reaching into a little warming compartment between the seats and taking out a Faux Type O. “So tell me more about the car with boobs that ended up in the ravine,” he said. “I like a good story.”

I spilled my tale of woe. Dick found it highly amusing. Somewhere between my car getting ravined and my engagement ring’s mystique getting debunked, Dick was laughing so hard that Faux Type O was coming out of his nose. The sight was downright disturbing.

“You know, you remind me a little of my friend Jane,” he said, wiping at his nose. “She’s another vampire in the Hollow. She had to be turned into a vampire, because the local drunk thought she was a deer and shot her. It was either go undead or go into the white light.”

“Wait, does Jane run a bookstore called Specialty Books?” I asked, my voice cracking.

“Yeah.” He chuckled. “How did you know?”

“I drove her to Nashville this week.”

“Hey, you’re Miranda, aren’t you?” he exclaimed. “You’re Iris Scanlon’s new driver!”

“You know Iris?” I squeaked.

“Sure, she’s a friend of my Andrea’s. I work at the shop sometimes, too, but I was, er, out that night. Jane was telling me about you. Did you really drop that marble dragon’s egg on her foot?”

“Oh, no!” I yelped, the blood draining from my face. He knew my boss, and I’d just confessed to the full complement of my professional nitwittery. I clapped my hands over my mouth. “I can’t believe—of all the vampires to run into—damn it!”

“Calm down, Jinx, I’m not going to call and tell on you. I figure you and Iris need to work this out on your own.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. “Really?”

“Yeah, I’m the one who arranged all of the upgrades on the transport vehicle. You think I want to tell her that her newest employee destroyed the car she’s been drooling over for three months?”

“Good point.”

“Besides, Jinx, what’s said in the El Camino stays in the El Camino.”

“Could we talk about why you’re calling me Jinx?”

“I give people nicknames, it’s sort of a thing. If it makes you feel better, my other friends are nicknamed Stretch, Jackass, and Spazzy McGee.”

“You know, I think that does make me feel better.”

“If you’re hungry, there’s Corn Nuts in the glove compartment.”

“Why would you have Corn Nuts?”

“Living friends, one of whom eats as if carbs are about to be declared illegal,” he said as I dug into the bag. “So are we going to talk about your friend who’s hiding in the back of my car?”

I cleared my throat. “Sorry about that. He was afraid you would feel threatened if there were two of us.”

“Why didn’t he just run ahead?”

“He didn’t want to leave me.”

“Well, I think that makes me like him a little bit. Would he be insulted if I asked him to move up front?” he asked.

I thought about the car-in-the-ravine incident. “No, he’s OK.”

I wasn’t exactly relishing the idea of returning to my hometown. Nestled in a crook of the Kentucky-Ohio River border, Half-Moon Hollow is one of those stereotypical Southern towns where everybody knows each other. Of the ten thousand or so people who live in the town, my parents played bridge, golfed, or went to church with at least half. There was not a lot of room for someone like me, who kept the gossip mill running like a hamster wheel. I’d left as soon as the ink was dry on my high-school diploma and had never intended to come back. And now I didn’t think I would have a choice about leaving.

The drive back to the Hollow was a strange mix of highly entertaining conversation, courtesy of Dick, and that strange “time molasses” feeling you get when you’re facing trouble. Time alternately feels as if it’s moving too fast and gives you far too many opportunities to think about the exact depth of your particular paddle-less creek.

How was I going to handle the Jason situation? Part of me really wanted to approach it with all of the class and dignity that he wouldn’t expect from me, while the other wanted to Taser him in bad places until his neighbors called the cops.

And even if Dick kept his mouth shut and Collin took the blame for the car, how was Iris going to react to my arrival? Wearing mismatched picnic clothes while bearing a bedraggled, barely fed vampire client in my wake wasn’t exactly the picture of professionalism. And I hadn’t contacted my mother in more than twenty-four hours, which meant that there was every chance she had called Iris to demand to know where I was. Maybe if I just skipped town after Iris fired me, my mom would assume that I was a missing person.

I could live in Mexico for a while. My Spanish was passable, and I enjoyed a good tamale. I groaned. I would not hide from my problems, I told myself. I would face up to what happened, tell Iris everything, dump Jason like a sack of manure, and figure everything out from there.

“Don’t worry, honey, we’re only a few miles away,” Dick assured me.

I glanced at the clock. We were running right on time.

The Mexico plan wasn’t so bad, really.

Ophelia Lambert had creeped me the hell out the night I’d had to submit to various screenings to clear me as a transport specialist. When Dick drove me to a little two-story ranch house on County Line Road, I was sure he’d taken me to the wrong place. Martha Stewart could have lived in this house. There were flipping geraniums in the window boxes on the front porch.

Iris’s bright yellow Beeline minivan was parked in the driveway. Of course, it only made sense that she would want to be present for the inaugural arrival of the Beeline transport service … which meant that I had even less time in her employ.

“Are you sure this is the place?” I asked.

“It’s her house, I promise,” Dick told me. “And don’t worry about Iris. She might blow her stack at first, but she’ll eventually see the humor in it. Tell your man in the back that the next time he rides in my vehicle, it should be in the cab.”

“I will,” I said, smiling despite myself. “Thank you, Dick. Really, you’re a lifesaver.”

He winked, the little dimple in his cheek giving him an impish air. “I’ll see you around town, Jinx. One thing about our little circle of friends, we’re impossible to escape.”

As I got out of the car, Collin hopped out of the truck bed. He gave Dick a manly little nod and straightened his loud Hawaiian shirt. The case was still cradled carefully against his side. My hands shook as we approached the walk, and I thought I might get sick. Collin took my hand into his and kissed my forehead.

“It will be all right,” he promised. Just as he was leaning in for a better kiss, the front door of the house swung open. Ophelia Lambert stepped out, her brown curls bouncing in a sleek, high ponytail. She was wearing a red pleated miniskirt and a tiny red cardigan.

Collin’s hand slipped away from mine. He straightened, squared his shoulders, and looked every inch the dignified soldier. I, on the other hand, looked like a vagrant, given the expression on the vampires’ faces.

“Miss Puckett, aren’t you the surprise?” Ophelia said, her lips twitching in amusement. “Collin, so good to see you. And right on time.”

Despite his ridiculous outfit, Collin managed to look smooth and collected as he bent low over Ophelia’s hand. “I couldn’t bear to keep you waiting for this, Ophelia.”

She smirked at him. “Clever.”

Iris emerged from the house, her wild dark hair tamed into a respectable French twist. My boss looked tidy and sweet in her blue pencil skirt and white eyelet blouse. While she initially offered me a wide smile, her expression deepened into a frown when she glanced at the driveway … and my outfit.

Before she could say anything, a lithe, cool blond woman sashayed out of the house and launched herself at Collin. “Darling!” she exclaimed. “How wonderful to see you. It’s been ages.”

What. The. Hell?

The blonde in question, Sophie, was another senior member of the local Council. I’d learned not to trust that sweet face and those pretty manners during her “qualifying examinations” for the Council. Sophie was a sort of walking lie detector. She could yank the truth from someone’s subconscious if she was touching bare skin. I’d spent several unpleasant hours in her company during the Council’s screening process for humans who planned to work in vampire homes. The process was necessary to determine whether I had some sort of death wish or a secret desire to go on a staking rampage.

Collin gracefully pried his way out of Sophie’s embrace, with a pained glance in my direction. “Sophie, it has been too long.”

Sophie was not to be deterred, however, and she linked her arm through Collin’s to lead him into the house. She chattered away about this mutual friend and that. She wanted to throw Collin a dinner party while he was in town and introduce him to her neighbors.

Collin didn’t spare me another glance as the party gathered in Ophelia’s formal dining room. And why would he, with beautiful, polished Sophie and her smooth, nearly pearlescent skin and tits that seemed to have a gravitational pull all their own? I looked down at my borrowed, wrinkled dress and felt a blush creep up my cheeks. I drifted toward Iris, hoping that I could explain about the car quietly, get fired, and then slink away before I had to watch Sophie and Collin set up a bloody dinner date.

I had almost opened my mouth to confess when I realized that I was finally going to see inside the mysterious silver case! My brain spun with thoughts of the treasure I would be viewing in just a few seconds. Was it jewels? Precious archeological artifacts? The frozen head of Walt Disney?

Iris eyed me warily as I stepped eagerly toward the table. Collin placed the case in front of Ophelia with a flourish. He took the key from its chain around his neck and popped the lock. He lifted the lid, but I couldn’t see inside just yet.

“Oh, it’s beautiful.” Ophelia sighed, reaching into the case and pulling out—

“A teddy bear?” I exclaimed.

It was a very nice bear, its short brown fur perfectly fluffed, with soft velvet pads on its paws. But still. “I put myself through hell for a fucking teddy bear?” I shouted.

“Not just any teddy bear.” Ophelia preened. “An original 1902 Meinhoff with intact joints and ear rivets. And this one is one-of-a-kind. You see, the eyes are two different colors. The manufacturer didn’t make mistakes like this. It’s practically an urban legend in the toy world. Collin spent years tracking it down for me. It’s for Georgie’s birthday. She’s going to love it. Thank you, Collin, Miranda, for making this possible.”

What the—why—who the hell was Georgie?

My brain seemed to shortcircuit as I stared down at the little bear. It glared balefully up at us through one brown marble eye and one blue. All this time I thought we were carrying cash or jewels or nuclear secrets, and I was delivering a child’s toy.

Ophelia turned toward Iris and myself, handing us both envelopes. I glanced down at mine, which was filled with cash. Hundreds, lots of them.

Iris patted my shoulder. “Ophelia insisted on paying you a separate cash bonus if you arrived on time.”

I found that the money only seemed to make my anger grow, particularly with Sophie wriggling all over Collin like some vampire Playboy bunny. I was dismissed again. I was the help. The inadvertent other woman.

“Collin,” I said, clearing my throat. Collin couldn’t hear me over Sophie’s coos and giggles. I cleared my throat even louder. Nothing. Finally, I exclaimed, “Sophie, do you think you could stop rubbing your breasts against his arm for about five seconds so I can talk to him?”

“Miranda, what’s wrong?” Collin asked, his brow creased as he pried Sophie loose. She pouted a bit but kept her chest to herself. He pulled me aside, asking quietly, “Is this about Sophie? You have nothing to worry about, she’s just a friend. An old friend from a long time ago. We’ve known each for years. Trust me.”

Where had I heard that before?

Just a friend. Sure, Sophie was just a friend. And then, in a couple of days, I would be treated to exposure to Collin and Sophie’s secret sex life via video chat or text message or some digital media I hadn’t heard of yet. No. I wasn’t doing this again. I would not be subjected to the silly nicknames and accidental boob grazes of “platonic friends.” My next boyfriend was going to be a hermit.

Wait, my current boyfriend was a hermit … and I still had to compete with plastic, breathless Sophie.

Screw it.

I turned to Iris, who seemed to be caught in a permanent wince. “You know what? Iris, I really appreciate the fact that you hired me. And I know my employment is pretty much hanging by a thread. But at this point, I don’t care if you fire me, I quit!” I stalked toward the door, grumbling about vampires and their bullshit. I stopped, turning back to Iris and Ophelia. “I don’t mean to be rude. Ophelia, thank you for the bonus. And thank you for the opportunity, Iris. I really appreciate it. And considering what happened to your car, I won’t blame you for suing me.”

I stomped out the door and down the stairs toward the driveway. Sophie chuffed indignantly and called me too immature to work with the undead community. As the screen door slammed shut, I heard Iris ask, “What about the car?”

ON THE ROAD AGAIN

12

Dick was waiting for me at the end of Ophelia’s driveway, leaning against the side of his car and giving me a sympathetic look.

“How did you know?” I groaned. “Are you psychic, too?”

Dick chuckled. “Nope. But I’ve spent enough time around Ophelia to know how these situations are going to turn out. Can I give you a ride home?”

I nodded, smiling gratefully as he opened the door. “Would you mind if we made a quick stop first?”

“Will you tell me what happened in there?” he asked.

“I’ll think about it,” I grumbled.

Dick didn’t blame me for being pissed about the teddy bear, but he thought that selling counterfeit Snuggies out of his El Camino was a valid business model, so I’m not sure that was support that I needed. He seemed to understand that I needed some cheering up, so he shared Jane’s latest exploits, which included dropping a case of coffee beans on Andrea and wrenching her own front door off its hinges while she was arguing with Dick over stocking “adult paranormal titles.” I was going to have to spend more time with Jane. She may have been the only person on earth who could really understand me.

“Can you keep the engine running?” I asked as I unbuckled my seatbelt. “I’ll be right back.”

Dick frowned, clearly thinking that this was my home. He was probably wondering why I was planning to leave so quickly. “Sure.”

“And can I borrow your cell phone?”

Even more confused, Dick nodded and handed me a late-model smartphone. I played with the features on the walk to the house, until I found the camera function. I pulled the pawn receipt from my pocket as I climbed the steps. I took a deep breath, centering myself before I knocked on the door and dealt with Jason. He answered the door, coiffed and pressed as always, but the confused look on his face was priceless.

He glanced over his shoulder nervously but put his best smile on as he exclaimed, “Hi, sweetheart, you’re—”

I cranked my fist back like a piston and swung at his nose with all of my might, landing a blow that sent Jason tumbling back across the foyer floor. He yelped, landing with a thud, clutching at his spurting nostrils.

I smiled, acidic and sweet. “Enjoy Lisa and her ticklish knees.”

“Bat the hell, Miradah?” he exclaimed, slurring his words through his recently rearranged nasal cavity. “I tink you broke by dose!”

I tossed my pawn receipt at him. “Learn to use your screen lock, you spineless, manipulative mama’s boy!”

And while he was sprawled on the foyer floor, with blood dripping down his nose and my pawn ticket perfectly centered on his dark T-shirt, I whipped out Dick’s cell phone and snapped several pictures. Because this was a moment I wanted to remember.

I scampered down the steps and slid into the passenger side. Dick stared at me, wide-eyed, but had a huge grin plastered on his handsome face. “Did I just help you commit a felony?”

“I don’t know, are there important distinctions between misdemeanor and felony assault?” I asked, flexing my sore fingers as we sped away from the apartment complex.

“It seems like there should be,” he mused as I forwarded the cell-phone pictures to my e-mail address.

“Probably better that you don’t know, then.”

Dick was nice enough to drive me to my parents’ house, after assuring him that I wouldn’t be “bitch-slapping” anybody living there. Before I climbed out of the car, I promised that I would come by his place on Silver Ridge Road soon so I could spend some time with Andrea. Dick seemed very keen on persuading her to take a cross-country trip with me, as it could only end in what he called “world-class acts of destruction and stupidity.” He seemed to consider me some sort of vampire extreme-tourism attraction.

The house was quiet as I slipped inside. My parents’ part-time housekeeper, Faye, had left dinner warming in the oven, but I was too tired to consider eating. I flopped onto my bed and pressed my face into the freshly laundered quilt. My childhood bedroom was always ready for me. The furniture was always dusted. It hadn’t changed since I was a senior in high school. The walls were the same shade of Violently Violet.

I needed to take a shower. But I couldn’t seem to find the will to get up. I couldn’t move. I was exhausted, physically, emotionally, financially. I rubbed my face into the quilt and sighed. All that trouble for a stupid toy.

What could I do next? What was the step down from vampire chauffeur? Werewolf walker? Pedicurist for Bigfoot? I would have to Google that in the morning, I told myself. For now, I needed to sleep on a bed that wouldn’t collapse, get sprinkled in broken glass, or attract prickish vampires. I closed my eyes and let exhaustion drag me under.

Someone was touching my face. I was curled into the fetal position on my mattress, and cool fingers stroked down my forehead, along my brows. I leaned into them, mumbling, “Morning, Collin.”

“Who’s Collin?” a warm feminine voice asked.

“Mom?” I lifted my head from the bed and blinked up, my eyes gummy and tired. The scent of my mom’s gardenia perfume washed over me in an oversweet, familiar cloud. I ignored the recoil Mom gave when she took in the smeared makeup and Medusa hair.

She chuckled fondly and kissed my forehead. “Darlin’, what in the world are you wearing?”

My eyes adjusted to the dark room, and I could make out the glint of Mom’s ash-blond bob tucked behind her ears. The streetlamp outside my window reflected off the raw silk of her favorite slate-blue suit. It was one of those classic suits, the kind a woman buys in her thirties and will only give up when it’s ripped from her cold dead hands … or she gains twenty pounds. My mother hadn’t gained an ounce in thirty years. The suit would be perfectly crisp, even after a work day. And although I couldn’t see it clearly, I knew that her face was carefully made up to look professional and mature, as always.

“Hi, baby,” she said, stroking my cheek. “I’m so glad you’re home, where you belong. I was so worried about you being out there alone with some vampire.”

“He wasn’t just some vampire, Mom,” I groaned, rubbing my hand over my eyes. “He was a pretty nice guy.”

She sniffed and folded a pair of my discarded socks while I switched on the bedside lamp. I had this strange feeling of déjà vu, as if Mom had come home from work to have one of our come-to-Jesus midnight chats about why I should focus on passing trigonometry instead of auditioning for the school play.

Again with the sniffing. “Well, I’m just glad you won’t be doing that again.”

I swung my feet to the ground, wincing as my stiff legs cramped in protest. I stripped out of my borrowed dress and slid into my bathrobe. Mom straightened the picture frame I’d bumped on my way in the night before and realigned the participation certificate I’d received from a middle-school soccer team.

“Mom, I never said I wouldn’t be doing it again,” I reminded her. Never mind the fact that I probably wouldn’t be doing it again. I still hadn’t said it. “And you’d be surprised how nice some of them can be, some of the time.”

She patted my head. “Well, it doesn’t matter now. Have you talked to Jason since you got back into town?”

I avoided direct eye contact. “You could say that.”

Mom took my chin in her hands, then glanced down at my bruised knuckles. “So I take it the wedding is off, permanently?”

“Yes.” I nodded. “I know you’re disappointed, but really, you should be used to it by now.”

“Oh, don’t be that way, Miranda. I understand why you don’t want to marry Jason, really, I do. It would be too difficult, knowing that he was in love with another woman. Don’t get defensive with me.”

“You’re right.” I sighed. “I’m not being fair to you. I owe it to you to tell you this without my usual sarcasm.” I sat on the bed and looked her straight in the eye as I said, “Mom, I appreciate that you’ve tried to help me find my way over the past year, but I’m not going to work for you anymore.”

I reached into my shoulder bag and pulled out a bank envelope. I pressed it into her hand. “Five thousand dollars. With the interest, I still owe you eight. I’ll have it soon.” Mom spluttered that I didn’t have to pay so much at one time and I should hold on to part of it to invest in my new “dating wardrobe.”

“Mom, no.”

“Miranda, I’m glad you enjoyed this little road trip, but that’s no reason to throw away the progress you’ve made. This was supposed to be an opportunity for you to make up your mind about your relationship with Jason, not to find another field you won’t succeed in.”

“Hey, that’s not fair! I did exactly what I set out to do. I got my client from point A to point B, without … permanent damage. I’m making a rather substantial payment on the loan. That is the very definition of not failing,” I said. “You didn’t even ask me how I did, you just assumed, and I think that’s what hurts me the most.”

“Honey, you know I didn’t mean it that way.”

“No, Mom, you did,” I protested. “And I honestly don’t think you realize you’re doing it. You put me in the role of the family screw-up, because that way we don’t have to talk about Glenn’s tendency to spend Saturday afternoons at the Booby Hatch. As long as I keep screwing up, nothing else about the family need be called into question. You can pretend we’re all still kids and you’re still in control. You can keep us from getting into too much trouble, from getting hurt. Well, that’s just not the case anymore. I have a plan. I’m making progress. And that does not include working with you and Daddy at the law firm. I’m grateful for everything you’ve done for me, I really am. We both know that me working with you is not a long-term solution. I’m bored out of my skull. If I stay there, I’m going to spend every minute either planning my escape or resenting the hell out of you.

“You’re going to have to accept that I’m going to make my own choices, even if they’re not the choices you’d make for me, even if they could get me into trouble. I’ve got to figure these things out for myself. The last couple of days were really hard. Working with this vampire—I messed up more times than I can count, but I didn’t fail. You always said that success was a learned behavior. Well, I’m learning, and I’m not willing to give it up just yet.”

“Really?”

“I really like the transport job, Mom.”

“But you liked the pastry shop, and the magic act, and the studio.”

“Yes, when I was still in the honeymoon phase, and everything was new and shiny and exciting,” I agreed. “But as soon as things got difficult … or caught fire, I gave up and came home to plan my next adventure. But this time, even when things completely disintegrated and it seemed as if I’d never get home, I was having the time of my life. I think I’ve finally found the thing that I’m good at, and it combines all of the things I learned while doing the things I wasn’t so good at.”

“What?”

I chuckled. “It turns out that to be a good vampire chauffeur, you need the skills of a failed photographer, an understudy yacht mechanic, a well-trained waitress, a taxi driver, and a magician’s assistant.”

“Oh, Miranda.” She sighed, her lip trembling. “I didn’t ever want to make you feel that you’ve failed. And I know I’m hard on you sometimes. It’s just, well, I could always count on you when you were younger; your antics used to keep everything so lively. I was always proud of Glenn, but you were the one who kept your daddy and me talking.”

I snorted. “I’ll bet.”

“No, when we were worrying about you, we hardly noticed that we worked too many hours and hadn’t had any real time together since our honeymoon. And when you grew up and started all of these wild adventures, I suppose I grasped onto that as something we could fuss over together. And when we got you to come home, and you were working for us …”

“You worried about me full-time?” I suggested dryly.

“I didn’t mean to make you feel like a failure. Really. I was just so used to keeping my eye on you that it became a habit.”

“That is extremely unhealthy, Mom. And close supervision doesn’t mean I won’t do anything stupid.”

“I’m starting to see that, considering Glenn’s Booby Hatch issue.” She sniffed, swiping at her eyes. “So when do you go back to work?”

“I don’t know, but I may have just quit.”

“Well, that’s a first for you.”

I gnawed on my lips. “I know. But I’m going to keep at it. Even if I don’t work for Iris again, I’m going to stay in this field. I really like working with vampires.”

“Tell me what he was like.”

“Who?”

She smirked, pushing my hair back from my face. “The man who has you standing still for more than five minutes altogether.”

“I’ve been asleep for the last sixteen hours, Mom.”

“Don’t be obtuse, sweetheart,” she griped. “You have intentionally avoided talking about your client every time I’ve asked about him. And I don’t believe it’s because of some silly confidentiality agreement you signed for Iris. Now, tell me about Mr. Sutherland.”

“He was … contrary. He wanted things done exactly his way, or he became all stern and cranky. He gave me sixteen pages of rules and requirements before we even left his driveway.”

“And you always do so well with rules and requirements.”

“I drove him nuts from the moment the engine started. But eventually, I think he liked it. And Lord, I liked doing it, just because it made him break out of his stuffy persona and smile.”

“A good smile?” Mom asked, teasing.

I nodded.

“So why are you here instead of out there with him?”

“He—I just—it …” I sighed. “It wouldn’t have worked out. Like you said, he wasn’t my type.”

“That’s a silly reason. Your type usually looks like some of the clients coming through our offices. In fact, some of your boyfriends have been clients at our offices.”

“Easy,” I told her in a warning tone. “Don’t backtrack on this touching moment.”

She tilted her head, and once again, I was grateful that I’d never been on the receiving end of Mom’s questions on the witness stand. “If you saw him again, what would you do?”

I grumbled into my pillow but eventually admitted, “Jump him.”

Mom sighed, clapping a hand over her eyes. “I wish you wouldn’t share these things with me.”

“I know. That’s part of the reason I do it.”

I stayed up for most of the night, telling my mom about my adventures on the road with Collin. She couldn’t believe what I’d put up with, what I’d put myself through, just to keep a job. But I think it served to convince her of how badly I wanted to avoid coming back to Jason. She agreed that Collin sounded like just the sort of frustrating, fascinating man I deserved, and she spent the rest of the night trying to persuade me to contact him before he left town.

After unburdening my soul, I slept for at least ten hours. I plugged my iPod into the alarm clock and put my “Sleepy/Spa” playlist on repeat. I woke up with a slick of drool dried to my cheek and my hair in wild disarray. I stumbled out of my room, whacking my shoulder on the doorjamb on my way to the bathroom.

A full moon shone down on my parents’ yard. I went into the bathroom and splashed some cool water on my face. I peeled my hair back from my face with a headband and stumbled down the stairs.

“Mom, can we arrange an intravenous coffee system?” I mumbled, plodding down the steps.

I heard my mother’s tinkling laughter from downstairs. I hadn’t heard her laugh like that since Glenn’s wedding. It took all I had not to turn on my heel and clomp right back up the stairs. I would not be caught in one of my mother’s meetings, whether it was with members of the church bazaar committee or a potential date or employer for me. The last one resulted in our not speaking for days because I dumped a glass of iced tea over Leonard “Wandering Hands” Burton’s head.

“Miranda, is that you?” Mom called. “We have a guest, honey. Come on down.”

I was wearing a sleeveless flannel nightgown my brother had given me last Christmas. It was lavender, with pink kittens on it. Circa 1989 LA Gear slouchy socks completed the look. “Um, I’m not exactly dressed for company right now, Mom.”

“Oh, I think this visitor will be happy to see you, no matter how you’re dressed.”

Was my mom being held hostage? Was that why she sounded so sunny—and somewhat desperate? I grabbed a heavy walking stick from the umbrella stand and stuck my head into the parlor entryway.

“Collin?”

I dropped the walking stick with a clatter.

He was standing in my mother’s parlor, impeccably dressed in a slate-blue pinstriped suit, leaning against the mantel as if he’d been taking tea in the family parlor for decades. My mom was perched on the edge of her seat, entranced by the smooth vampire.

Collin smiled winsomely at me. “Miranda.” He eyed the stick on the floor and suppressed a grin. “Thank you for disarming.”

“I haven’t made up my mind about that,” I warned him.

“Oh, Miranda, hush. Don’t be rude to the man when he dropped by to give you flowers.”

“Flowers?” I glanced down at the elaborate arrangement of cream roses, lush orange calla lilies, and hypericum berries all bound together with a crisp orange taffeta ribbon. He placed the bouquet in my hands, fingers brushing against mine as he gazed down at me. “It’s a little unusual to tip your driver with flowers, don’t you think?”

“Well, my driver was rather unusual,” he said. “And I brought you this.”

He handed me my photo journal, which I’d apparently left at Ophelia’s when I huffed off. I grinned at him, opening the book. It seemed slightly heavier. New photos were taped onto pages toward the back. Pictures I recognized as shots I’d taken on our trip. The abandoned drive-in with its crumbling screen in the middle of nowhere. Collin at the diner booth, his eyes closed as if he was praying for strength. The Batmobile’s boobs. Me sleeping in the slanted bed at the Country Inn. My hair was tumbling around my face. My features were relaxed and untroubled. Despite the surroundings, I looked almost angelic.

“I was not aware that you took this,” I said, lifting my eyebrows and showing him the picture in question.

“I may have played with your camera a little bit while you were sleeping,” he admitted.

“My camera that was burning at the bottom of the ravine?”

“I also may have taken the memory card out of your camera while you were sleeping, so I could find a way to make copies of your photos,” he said, palming the memory card with a flourish, extending that hand to me, then snatching it away at the last minute. “You’re not the only one who’s good with sleight-of-hand.”

“Thanks for giving this back,” I said, closing the book and clutching it to my chest. “I would have been very upset if I’d lost it.”

“I wanted to make my own mark on it before I gave it back to you,” he said.

“Sophie’s just a friend?” I said, eyeing him carefully. “There’s no history there?”

“I have no interest in Sophie,” he said. “She’s too predictable, too polished. I want a woman who picks fights in parking lots with unknown assailants and loves to eat questionable food from even more questionable establishments and makes beautiful pictures of ordinary things.”

“Hmph,” I grumbled.

“And for the record, Ophelia’s sister was turned when she was a child. Ophelia does everything she can to make life more interesting for Georgie, including collecting very rare, very expensive toys. That teddy bear we were transporting was worth more than five hundred thousand dollars at auction. It’s one of a kind. And I only managed to track it down by threatening several of my sources with …” He spared my mother a glance. “A very harsh scolding.”

“A half-million-dollar teddy bear?”

“A very, very rare half-million-dollar teddy bear.”

I scrubbed my hand over my face. “I hate you guys. I really, really do.”

“Oh, Miranda,” Mom scolded.

“I am sorry,” he said. “I never meant to make you feel foolish. And I know I have been churlish and arrogant and—”

“Pigheaded,” I suggested.

“That seems fair,” he conceded as I stepped toward him.

“Demanding,” I added.

He slipped his hand through my hair, cradling my cheek against his palm. “I’ll accept that.”

“Dickish,” I said.

“I’m not sure that’s a word,” he protested.

“Which would be a problem if we were playing a board game, but since this is supposed to be an apology to me, I’ll say whatever I want. Mmm-kay?”

His lips twitched, even with my mom’s horrified gasp in the background. She never cared much for my way with words. “I can’t say I love you yet, but I know that I want enough time to figure it out. I’ve been alone for so long. And I was unhappy, but I couldn’t figure out why. I didn’t know what I was missing. And then you came stumbling into my life and I saw that it was you. I can live without you, but I don’t want to.” I stood motionless, gaping at him. He grimaced. “Too far?”

I shook my head. “No, that was just about perfect.”

“I do find myself curious—have you finally broken ties with the ‘butt-dialer’?”

“Yes. Decidedly. What exactly are you asking from me?”

“I was thinking that after spending much more time together, we could determine whether you want to spend the rest of your life with me. Whether you feel the way I do. I think I could make you happy … barring natural disasters, mechanical failure, inadvertent public nudity, and pestilence pouring forth from the sky.”

“Not funny, but I accept,” I murmured against his lips as he moved in to kiss me. I could hear my mother sniffling in the background. She was clearly eating this up with a spoon, and who could blame her? This was every suave-ass Cary Grant moment ever filmed, wrapped up in a much hotter package.

“Iris doesn’t accept your resignation, by the way,” he told me. “She said that anyone who can deliver a client safely, on time, with all of the mishaps we suffered and the, er, difficult nature of said client, is definitely someone she wants on the payroll.”

“Even with the damage to the car?”

He shrugged. “She said to think of it as a prototype. Clearly, a built-in GPS system is the first feature she will be ordering in the next model. She would like you to take a few days off to recover, then return to work on Friday, with a pay raise.”

“A raise?” Mom exclaimed.

“Ophelia found my description of our adventures to be highly entertaining. I think Iris is afraid that Ophelia will try to poach you to be her personal driver. Either way, Iris has another assignment for you.”

“I’m almost afraid to ask,” I said.

“It’s a bit closer to home this time, from the Hollow to New Orleans and back. Jane has a vampire author coming into the shop for a book signing, and she prefers to see a bit of the country when she travels.”

“I don’t know if I can face another motel for a while,” I told him.

“She specifically mentioned the Peabody Hotel in Memphis. Luxurious accommodations and a minibar you can ransack to your heart’s content.”

“Memphis?” I squealed. “I’ve never taken pictures of Mud Island. Oh, I can get kicked out of Graceland!”

Mom sighed. “Oh, Miranda, not again.”

“That security guard had no sense of humor, Mom.”

“Well, you wouldn’t be alone,” Collin said. “I’ve requested that you drive me back to Washington … at some point … which I haven’t determined yet.”

“Let me guess.” I snorted. “Return date wasn’t mentioned in that sixteen-page contract rider.”

“No. I expected to return immediately. But I’ve found that Half-Moon Hollow has certain … attractions I did not anticipate.”

“I thought you were the master of anticipation.”

He slipped his arms around my waist. “Well, some things are even better than anything my paltry gift could conjure up.”

“You are too much,” I told him.

“And by the way, Iris has a new policy. All client-requirement riders are to be a maximum of three pages. Her exact words were, ‘You will never have to put up with anything like that again.’”

“Will wonders never cease?” I said, smirking at him. “So we have a few days before I have to report back to work. We can get into a lot of trouble in a few days. If only we had vampire-safe transportation.”

“And I just happen to have vampire-safe transportation available,” he said, pulling the curtain aside to reveal a dark SUV.

“How did you rent a car without ID?” I asked.

“Did you know that the Council can issue valid vampire identification without a waiting period? And negotiate money transfers with Swiss banks? And replace vampire-safe vehicles destroyed in the course of Council business?”

“I did not know that.”

“And they managed to wrangle a replacement for the credit card that motel clerk cut up.”

I asked, “Do I want to know how they knew my account numbers?”

He shook his head. “No.”

Because the housekeeper had finished the laundry, my traveling clothes were already clean and neatly folded. I stuffed them into my battered bag and slipped into jeans and one of Collin’s shirts. He would get it back … eventually.

I tromped down the stairs and could hear Mom tittering about the romance of a spontaneous weekend trip and how she and Daddy used to do that all the time together. I’m not sure which marriage she’s remembering, but I certainly didn’t recall Daddy whisking Mom anywhere that didn’t involve a deposition.

Collin was shooting a pleading look at the stairs just as Mom said, “I’m so sorry Lyle wasn’t home tonight to meet you. He’d planned to be here, but he got held up at work, which is typical. But I suppose Miranda won’t have to worry about that with you, will she? She mentioned that you work from home. How fortunate for her …”

Was I mistaken, or was my mother sort of flirting with my vampire almost-boyfriend?

“Ready?” I asked, snickering.

“Yes, please.”

“Be careful, sweetheart. Do let Collin drive every once in a while.”

“Actually, Mrs. Puckett, we tend to fare better when Miranda is driving.”

“Really?” Mom lifted her brows. She rubbed her sternum, just over her heart. “I think I just stopped worrying, just the tiniest bit. What a refreshing change of pace.”

“She’s hallucinating,” I told Collin. “Run for it.”

I trotted out to the rented SUV, which looked like the Batmobile’s clone. I patted the boobless hood fondly. “I dub thee the Batmobile Two. I would crack champagne over your grille, but I think we all know how that would turn out.”

“A busted headlight?” Collin guessed. I nodded. “Well, she’s been christened in spirit, if not in spirits.”

“If that’s the quality of humor I can anticipate on this trip, it’s going to be a long drive,” I told him, climbing into the driver’s seat.

“Can we discuss your damaged knuckles?” he asked as I handed him the atlas. He bent his head over my hand to inspect the bruises. “Does this new injury have anything to do with your fiancé’s poor taste in jewelry?”

“I think it’s best to leave you wondering.”

“I would expect nothing less of my girl.”

I chuckled. “Memphis is only going to take a couple of hours. Did you want to swing around on our way back and visit somewhere else? I’m thinking Branson. It’s the Las Vegas of the Midwest.”

He frowned. “I was thinking something closer for our first stop. Someplace like your bedroom.”

“I haven’t had time to get an apartment. I was staying with my parents. I just woke up. Did you think I normally looked like that in the evening?”

He ignored that verbal land mine and chirped, “Branson it is, then.”

“It was just a suggestion. We don’t even have to go to Memphis if you don’t want to. We can just drive until we find a nice little bed-and-breakfast … or the closest available flat surface …”

“I like that last option.”

I angled my chin toward the atlas. “So which way do we go?”

He tossed the map into the backseat, where it landed in a heap. He leaned over the console, catching my mouth in a hot, sweet kiss. “You decide.”

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NICE GIRLS DON’T BITE THEIR NEIGHBORS
by Molly Harper

Available March 2012 from Pocket Books

Whoever said childbirth is the most difficult thing a parent can go through has never dealt with a moody teenage vampire.

—Siring for the Stupid: A Beginner’s Guide to Raising Newborn Vampires

Three months after he moved into my ancestral home, Gabriel Nightengale’s last box was finally unpacked. The catch was that we could never break up, because I had run out of friends who were willing to help us move.

“I have good news,” he said, striding into the library, where I was sprawled on the velvet chaise longue we’d moved into the room only a few days ago. I was reading Persuasion again, but this time, I was reading Gabriel’s very old, very delicate original edition. It was practically a religious experience.

This was a vastly different library from just a year ago, when it was stuffed with my well-worn paperback versions of Jane Austen and Roald Dahl novels … and my creepily extensive collection of unicorn figurines. This was a grown-up library. I’d cleared out quite a bit of space for Gabriel’s books and furniture. It wasn’t a difficult choice, considering that most of his books were valuable antiques, whereas most of mine were purchased at secondhand paperback shops.

I’d also packed most of my unicorn collection away in the cellar, threatening Gabriel with permanent sunburn if he so much as breathed a word about it to Dick.

As Gabriel moved toward me, my pitifully hideous but lovable dog, Fitz, raised his head from my knee. Gently nudging Fitz aside, Gabriel pressed kisses along the line of my throat and announced, “My VHS tapes now have a permanent home in your entertainment center, alphabetized and divided by genre.”

At this announcement, Fitz trotted out of the room in search of some pair of Gabriel’s shoes that he hadn’t managed to chew yet. I peered up at him over the top of the book, cringing. “So now would be a really bad time to tell you that I don’t have a VHS player anymore, right? This is a strictly digital household.”

Gabriel groaned and flopped down next to me. “I’m going to have to buy Casablanca again.”

“You didn’t notice the lack of a VCR in the TV cabinet?” I asked.

He shook his head. “You know I don’t understand half of the gadgets you have around here.”

That was true. The previous week, I’d caught him trying to “reboot” my wireless network by kicking the router across the room. That was a long conversation. I shook my head. “How did I end up in a relationship in which I am the tech person?”

He leaned in and kissed me. “When you taught me how to work my voicemail, I knew I could never let you go.”

I giggled as Gabriel crossed the room and selected an older volume from the crowded shelves. I watched him move, unabashedly lovestruck. My human relationships had been few and far between, but they’d been polite, civilized—boring. I craved Gabriel with a bone-deep lust I’d once reserved exclusively for Godiva truffles. I was fixated, not just in the physical sense—although that was an obvious, and occasionally distracting, bonus—but also with what he thought, how he saw the world, how he saw me. It was addictive to see myself reflected in his liquid silver eyes as strong, beautiful, intelligent, and interesting, though slightly exasperating. We each provided a vital service for the other. He made me stronger, and I kept him from taking himself too seriously.

Gabriel settled in next to me, absorbed in a vintage copy of Jane Eyre. We sat like that for some time, quietly reveling in not having anything to do, anywhere to be. Crisis-free moments like this had been rare in our relationship.

“Jane Eyre?” I asked. “Not your usual selection.”

He nodded. “You’ve only mentioned a dozen or so times that Edward Rochester is second only to Mr. Darcy on your ‘Fictional Character Free Pass List.’ I want to know what I’m up against.”

I smirked, snuggling into his side. “You stand a fair chance. As long as you don’t have a crazy wife hidden away somewhere …” I stared at him for a beat.

“I don’t,” he said, shaking his head at me and opening his book.

That may have seemed like an unfair shot, but Gabriel and I had suffered serious relationship issues related to his “careful editing” of his past. Case in point, the fire in my cellar caused by Gabriel’s psycho childe, Jeanine, who had stalked me, nearly killed me with aerosol silver, and eventually arranged for our friend Andrea to be forcibly turned into a vampire. I try to resist pointing out that of all this could have been avoided if Gabriel had told me about Jeanine, instead of playing the tortured “I can’t tell you because you’ll hate me, so I’ll protect you by keeping you in the dark” card.

Trust me, that card never works. I ended up with more undead friends and a serious cleaning bill for smoke damage. And then, as the vampire who technically defeated her in a Taser-versus-lunatic-soaked-in-lamp-oil battle, there was the hassle of receiving the proceeds from Jeanine’s estate through the Council, then donating them to various charities. I didn’t want one penny from her crazy behind darkening my doorway.

“Just checking,” I said, smiling sweetly and earning an undignified but amused snort from Gabriel. I returned my attention to poor, persevering Anne Elliot. Once again, I wondered how she managed to go so many chapters without bitch-slapping every single person she came into contact with. I actually wrote a paper about it in college. My professor deducted points for using the phrase bitch-slap in the title.

It was totally worth it.

I was just settling into the salons of Austenian Bath when Gabriel muttered, “This is strange.”

I looked up to see him pulling a long blue-gray thread from between the nearly translucent pages. My jaw dropped, and I was kneeling on the chaise in a flash. “Is the binding coming loose? No, don’t pull it! I can take it to my book doctor tomorrow night.”

“Stop hyperventilating, sweetheart. I think it’s a bookmark,” he said, pulling on the thread until he’d stretched it into my hand. “Here.”

I wound the thread around my finger. “What passage was it marking?”

He scanned the page and lifted an eyebrow. “It’s an Edward and Jane scene. I know how you love those. Edward’s saying, ‘I sometimes have a queer feeling with regard to you—especially when you are near me, as now: it is as if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly and inextricably knotted to a similar string situated in the corresponding quarter of your little frame.’”

I was so caught up in watching his lips as they formed the words that I barely noticed the sudden tension on the fiber wound around my finger. I realized now that Gabriel had slipped a ring onto the thread and was sliding it toward me. I watched as the respectable diamond twinkled in the light of the oil lamp.

“I’m not Edward,” Gabriel promised. “I’m not afraid the thread will break and leave me bleeding. Our thread’s already been tested. And it will hold up. I’m asking you to make the link permanent. Please, marry me.”

I smiled as the ring slid into my hand. I can’t say this was a surprise. After the passing of the Federal Undead Marriage Act a few months before, Gabriel had officially proposed with this very tasteful solitaire. And I’d said no. We’d agreed to move in together because I’d told Gabriel that I wasn’t ready to be engaged yet. I was still adjusting to being a vampire. I was still recovering from Zeb and Jolene’s wedding from hell. And oh, yeah, Gabriel’s childe had just tried to murder me in my own home. I needed a breather.

Gabriel had proposed again a few weeks later, and I wasn’t ready. And then again on my birthday, and I still wasn’t ready. Then he’d promised not to ask me again until I was ready. And when he’d said that, I’d suddenly felt ready. And then I’d felt like an idiot, because by then, he’d stopped proposing.

This was no ballpark Jumbotron, no ring hidden in a soufflé. It was the right way for Gabriel to ask me to marry him. And this was the right time.

I nodded, mute, and the tension seemed to drain out of Gabriel. He grinned, slid his hands in my hair, and pulled me close. “I struggled with the right passage, you know,” he said, sliding the ring over my knuckle and kissing the web of skin between my fingers. “I tried all of Austen’s works, but the proposals are all so formal. I thought you would appreciate Edward’s passion. And it still involves a Jane, after all. The ring is a copy of my mother’s. I took the stone from her engagement ring and had a jeweler place it in a titanium setting.”

“Titanium?” I asked.

“Dick knew a guy,” he said.

“Of course he did.”

“You’re a bit rough-and-tumble with jewelry, and I knew it would have to be able to stand up to …”

“Nuclear winter?”

His eyebrow lifted. “I never know with you.”

I laughed, throwing my arms around him and knocking him back on the seat and straddling his hips. Hovering over him, I nuzzled his neck, kissing and nipping before my fangs extended. I scraped them along his jugular, making him shudder and snake his hands around my waist, pulling me closer. I threaded my fingers through his coal-black hair and tugged his head back. His own fangs snicked out as he grinned up at me. He cupped my cheeks in his palms and gave me my first “betrothed” kiss.

I have to say that if I’d known that was what I had to look forward to as a married woman, I probably would have agreed to the engagement a lot sooner.

He chuckled, pressing his thumb over my right canine, letting it pierce the skin. I nibbled at it as he twisted under me, a sweet little trickle of my sire’s blood lending to an equally wet and pleasant sensation elsewhere. Pushing the scoop neck of my blouse away, he trailed his lips over the edge of my bra and snapped the left strap with his razor-sharp fangs.

Your underwear budget triples when you’re dating the undead.

“You haven’t said yes, by the way,” he murmured, snapping the other bra strap with his teeth.

I gasped, and his thumb fell away from my mouth. “I’m sorry! Yes, yes, yes!”

“Should I find it disturbing that it took jewelry to make you cry ‘yes, yes, yes’ in my presence for the first time?” he asked, nuzzling my throat.

“Nice.” I snickered.

“So, who do you want to call first?” he asked. “Your mother? Jenny? Zeb and Jolene? Oh, or I can call Dick, act like I’m sobbing, and tell him you said no. Make him think that he has to take me out for an evening of drinking and not talking about our feelings.”

“That’s your idea of a joke?” I asked, arching my eyebrow.

He smirked, pulling my blouse over my head. My ruined bra fell to pieces and dropped to the floor. “I find Dick’s squirming in the face of emotional vulnerability to be the height of hilarity.”

“This is why Dick wins all of your prank wars,” I told him, as he pulled me back onto the chaise, my weight settled on his chest.

“Do you want to call your mother first or Zeb?”

I shook my head, cradling my face into his neck. “No.”

“No?”

“Neither. First, because I’d like to wait until I can tell Aunt Jettie.” I sighed, thinking fondly of my ghostly great-aunt and her equally deceased beau, Gilbert Wainwright. “And I don’t know when she’ll be back from whatever astral jaunt she and Mr. Wainwright are taking. And second, because I want to lie here with you and enjoy being engaged without being squealed at or hug-strangled or told that I don’t want to get married in the spring because it’s impossible to get the right mix of seasonal tulips. I just want to …” I sighed and rubbed my bare chest against his shirt in a distinctly non-virginal-bride manner. “Bask.”

“You never do what I expect you to,” he said, kissing the ring on my finger.

“Admit it, that’s part of the attraction.”

“Yes. Yes, it is.” He sighed. “But you will be the one to tell your mother, right? I asked your father for his blessing. But I think you should be the one to deliver the news to your mother.”

I snorted. Mama’s reaction to our premarital cohabiting included screaming and yelling and threatening us with grounding. Considering that the worst that his own mother had ever done to him was call for her smelling salts, Gabriel was permanently scarred. He had flashbacks for weeks.

“So, I’m thinking … Vegas Strip next Friday? We could gamble a little, get married, bail Dick out of jail, and be home by Monday,” I suggested.

“We are not going to get married in some dingy chapel by an Elvis impersonator.”

“We could get a Streisand impersonator if it would make you more comfortable.”

“Jane.” He chuckled, exasperated. “Is that really how you want to get married? Skulking off like we’re ashamed of ourselves? Was that what little Jane dreamed and hoped for?”

“Little Jane thought she would marry Mark-Paul Gosselaar from Saved by the Bell in an English castle. Little Jane was an idiot.”

“If you want the English castle, you shall have it … minus this Mark-Paul person,” he said. “And if you really want the Vegas Strip, you shall have that. I want you to have the sort of wedding that will make you happy.”

I countered, “What about the kind of wedding that makes you happy?”

“I want to show up in a tux and be told where to stand. That would make me very happy.”

I groaned.

“What about wedding planning scares you?”

“All of it. Picking out flowers. The dress. The bridesmaids’ dresses … no, wait, I’m looking forward to that. Vengeance will be mine. But making all the choices … and then having those choices subtly criticized by every woman in my family. And the fact that each of those choices will probably ‘ruin the wedding’ for someone.”

“Ruin the wedding?”

“When my sister wanted to get married at the country club, Grandma Ruthie said the wedding would be ruined for her if Jenny got married anywhere but the Baptist church. Several cousins threatened to boycott if Jenny didn’t allow children to attend. Our great-uncle said he wouldn’t come to the reception unless she served Pabst Blue Ribbon. People just seem to lose their minds when it comes to weddings. You can’t make everybody happy.”

“So we won’t try,” Gabriel said. “We’ll do what makes us happy. It’s our wedding, after all.”

I chuckled, pressing my lips to his throat, the curve of his jaw, as I rolled over him and slipped my fingers around his belt buckle, sliding it open. “Oh, you’re so naive. It’s cute, really.”

We stayed in that happy (naked) secret-engagement bubble until I had to open the shop the next evening. Things had been progressing very nicely at Specialty Books since I’d reopened earlier that year. While we initially depended on special efforts such as the “Bump in the Night” Book Club and meetings of the local chapter of the Friends and Family of the Undead to keep in the black, online sales and increasingly healthy in-store traffic made opening the electric bills and supplier invoices a lot less painful every month.

There were times when I felt like a failure for never leaving the Hollow. I mean, I lived just a few miles from the house where I’d grown up. But there were good reasons for me to stay when I was human—my family, Aunt Jettie, the Half-Moon Hollow Public Library, where I’d devoted most of my adult years to helping kids find books to love. And if I’d left, I might never have met Gabriel. I would probably still be human. And clearly, this was the life I’d been intended for. Big-city life, babies, and aging just weren’t my style.

Still, Half-Moon Hollow is a strange place for a vampire to spend her days. The small-town stereotype in which everybody knows everybody, or is at least related to them by marriage, holds true in a lot of places, such as the Hollow. Newspapers and telephones are kept around for convenience, but the real flow of information runs through the kitchens, beauty parlors, and grocery aisles. A visit to town on Saturday morning means the difference between community ignorance and knowing who’s in jail, who’s knocked up, and whose marriage is teetering on the brink of disaster.

As one of the few “out” vampires living in the Hollow, I was still occasionally the subject of gossip. My neighbors seemed torn between fearing me and remembering me as the goofy band geek who’d babysat their children. You could see it in their eyes sometimes, the initial rush of familiarity and affection, just before they remembered that I was no longer that girl, no longer human. The light in their eyes quickly extinguished, and the outstretched arms that had meant to hug me were extended into a timid handshake—if I was lucky.

But I’d made enough friends in the supernatural community to make up for it. Friends like Andrea and Dick, who’d already arrived at the shop by the time I opened the door. But, considering the noises I heard from the storeroom, I decided to give them a few minutes.

Seriously, I once walked into the office without knocking … I was scarred for life. And I’m going to live forever.

I sorted through that day’s mail, shelved some newly arrived selections, and replenished the sweeteners in the coffee bar. I fired up the cappuccino machine and found that we were out of two-percent, which meant that my mochaccino had a little less -ccino. I improvised with a little Faux Type O and prayed that Andrea wouldn’t hear me messing with her “baby.”

“Jane!”

No such luck.

Andrea came rushing into the room, straightening her mussed Titian hair. I cringed. The last time she’d found me turning on the cappuccino maker, she’d thrown a Mayan quartz skull at my head—which, if you think about it, is sort of in poor taste.

“Remember, I am your boss,” I said, raising my hands and my bloodyccino in a defensive position.

“What the hell is that?” Andrea demanded, pointing at my hands. Even in her angry, rumpled state, Andrea was one of the most poised and elegant women I knew. I often said she was what Grace Kelly would have looked like if Grace had reddish hair and a propensity for dating redneck scoundrels. And I was going to put her in the ugliest bridesmaid dress I could find.

“Look, I get it. I’m not as good at running the machine as you are. There’s no reason to be all snotty about it. Are you going after a raise or something?”

“Not the coffee, you ninny, the rock on your left hand! Did Gabriel finally break you down and convince you to say yes?”

“Did you just call me a ninny? What are you, seventy?”

She huffed, a tendril of her deep red hair fluttering in her face. “Don’t ignore the question.”

“Yes, OK? I said yes. We’re getting married.”

I prepared for squealing and a girlie-girlie bonding moment. Instead, she yelled, “Dick! I owe you five bucks!”

I heard a loud “whoop” from the back room as Andrea hugged me.

“You know, you should be a little more considerate of my standing wagers when you make major life decisions.”

“You made a bet on whether I would agree to marry Gabriel?” I exclaimed, slapping her shoulder. “And you only bet five dollars?”

Dick walked in and grinned evilly at the sight of us hugging and talking practically nose-to-nose. “Dear Penthouse, I never believed something like this could happen to me, but when my super-hot wife asked me what I wanted more than anything else for my birthday …”

Andrea sighed and dropped her head to my shoulder in defeat.

“Hey, you married him.”

“I have no one to blame but myself,” she muttered as Dick left to rummage around in the storeroom.

A mind-boggling mix of fierce loyalty and moral flexibility, Dick used to be the local go-to guy for under-the-table commerce. If you needed an iPod that would only work on European adapters, he was your guy. He lived this way for more than a century, before he fell hard for Andrea, the first woman actually to turn him down in all that time. Andrea didn’t find any of Dick’s roguish ways remotely charming, which apparently was what he was looking for all along. He managed to make the leap from dating to cohabiting by slowly but surely moving his vaguely obscene T-shirts and Dukes of Hazzard memorabilia into her swanky townhouse condo. It was by far the sneakiest thing I’d ever seen him do, and that’s saying something.

“Tell her about the other part of the bet.” Dick snickered as he reemerged, carrying a bottle of champagne and three glasses.

“How do you always happen to have champagne handy for special occasions?” I asked.

“I hide it in your break-room fridge,” he said, popping the cork and pouring generous splashes into each of our glasses, mixing it with synthetic blood for a disturbing mimosa. “None of your employees eats, so it’s a safe spot. Now, my dearest wife, tell our Jane the other part of the bet. I’ll even help you start off. If Jane said yes to Gabriel before March Madness, you owed me five dollars and …”

Andrea sighed. “And … you get to decorate the den with your Dukes of Hazzard memorabilia.”

I winced at the burn of champagne bubbles being channeled up my nose. Dick and Andrea had been battling over the renovations to Dick’s family home ever since Gabriel had given the deed back to Dick months before. Gabriel hadn’t left the house to rot while it was under his care for the last century or so, but he hadn’t exactly kept it move-in ready, either. Using every illicit contact at his disposal, Dick was gathering the manpower and materials to completely modernize the place—indoor plumbing, electrical wiring, lightproofing the bedroom, and adding a “shower big enough for eight” to the master bath.

I chose not to think about why they might need a shower that big.

Having just overseen the completion of his own home, my human best friend, Zeb, was helping Dick with some of the work. Andrea sat back and prayed that their version of rewiring wouldn’t burn the house down while they slept for the day. Other than occasionally suggesting a wall color or picking out tile, Andrea had left the renovations to Dick … until he showed her his decorating plans for the den, apparently.

“And this means it is no longer a den,” Dick said, nudging her. “It is now a …”

“Man cave,” she said, wrinkling up her face as if saying the words pained her.

I covered my giggles with another sip of the bubbly. Dick put his arm around my shoulders. “Here’s looking at you, Stretch. If Gabriel doesn’t make you deliriously happy, I’ll kick his ass.”

“Be sure to include that in your toast at the wedding.” I chuckled.

“Oh, my gosh! The wedding!” Andrea squealed. “When is it? Where will it be? What about your dress?”

I groaned. Andrea considered herself to be the authority on undead matrimony. She and Dick were the first vampire couple to marry legally in McClure County. There’d been an outdoor, nighttime ceremony, the first party Gabriel had hosted at his home in more than a hundred years—and the last one he hosted before officially handing the keys to my sister, Jenny. His gift served two purposes: soothing Jenny’s chronically tender feelings after being denied our ancestral home, River Oaks, and giving me a good reason to invite Gabriel to come live with me.

Andrea had worn a vintage confection she’d found online. I’d barely managed to talk Dick out of wearing his “tuxedo” T-shirt, for which I’d been rewarded by not having to wear another damned bridesmaid dress. And now, thanks to her acquired “expertise,” Andrea was going to give Mama a run for her money in terms of annoying me.

“Well, Gabriel shot down my Vegas plan, so I haven’t a clue,” I said.

“You mean, he had a woman offer to skip all the wedding crap and marry him in Vegas and he turned it down? I need to talk some sense into that boy,” Dick said, shaking his head. When Andrea glared at him, he quickly added, “Not that I didn’t absolutely love all of our wedding crap, baby. Happiest day of my life. Really.”

Andrea sniffed and turned on her heel toward the ritual-candle section. I snickered and taunted Dick. “So much trouble!”

“Shut it, you,” he grumbled before pitching his voice into an apologetic whine. “Andrea, baby! I didn’t mean it like that!”

Realizing that I’d left my cell phone in Big Bertha, my trusty, weathered station wagon, I made my way out of the shop with a little skip in my step and a tune on my lips. Dick had managed to distract Andrea from her “Our wedding was special” tirade with more good news. After reviewing last quarter’s sales, he’d found that Specialty Books was actually showing a profit for the first time since my former boss, Mr. Wainwright, opened it sixty years before. Even with the stuff destroyed when his nephew, Emery, repeatedly broke into the shop, we were ahead of our projections for the quarter. Most of the increase was rooted in online sales, a result of Zeb’s redesigning the shop’s Web site.

And yes, I was letting Dick handle the bookkeeping. It turns out that ruthlessly calculating profits from underhanded back-alley deals actually makes one pretty good with math. And now that I knew where he slept on a permanent basis, I trusted him not to steal from me.

I danced around the front of my decades-old Ford station wagon and saw that Jamie Lanier, our dairy delivery guy, was pulling up to the curb in his Half-Moon Dairy truck. I smiled and waved as I opened my driver’s-side door.

“Hey, Miss Jane!” he hollered over the blaring of his earbuds as he unloaded his hand truck.

I cringed at his use of “Miss,” which clearly indicated that Jamie still thought of me as the old lady who used to babysit him every summer. Again I say, this is the drawback of living in your hometown. Local hunks have to start off somewhere, and generally, it’s as the kid who would only eat smiley-face pancakes from ages five to seven.

And good Lord, Jamie was a hunk. He had the all-American, apple-pie look that they probably used as a template when they made GI Joe dolls. And the color palette wasn’t bad, either—warm, tanned skin and olive-green eyes that twinkled at me from under the fringe of his wavy dark blond hair. He loomed four inches over even my tall frame, and I found myself stammering and blushing like a schoolgirl every time he stood less than an arm’s length from me.

Did I mention that he was just about to graduate? From high school? Which would make me the dirtiest old lady in the world.

Andrea enjoyed my discomfort each week when Jamie delivered dairy products for the coffee bar, which, again, made me question the value of having girlfriends.

I leaned into my car, searching for the charger cord that tethered my phone. Honestly, it was the only way I could find the damn thing most days.

My head cocked toward the sound of tires screeching. I straightened up to see an old rusted-out black sedan with dark-tinted windows barreling down the street, heading straight for Jamie’s truck. Backing out of the rear gate, his hand truck loaded with crates, Jamie had no clue that he was walking right into the path of the oncoming car.

“Jamie!” I screamed.

Jamie froze and whipped around just as the car struck him. The force of the chrome bumper striking his knees slammed him to the pavement. Jamie barely let out a yelp as his head made a sick cracking noise against the pavement. I screamed again at the wet thump of the tires rolling over his torso, the snap of breaking ribs.

The car swerved toward me. I felt paralyzed, unable to help myself as Jamie lay bleeding on the street. I stared through the darkened windows, trying to make out any shape or feature behind the tinted glass. But the rapid approach of the car’s grille caught my attention. I shoved my palms against the top of Big Bertha’s doorframe and launched myself onto the roof, just before the black car smashed into my driver’s side. The open door snapped off, flying toward the shop’s display window. I landed on my feet as the glass shattered behind me. My heels screeched on the metal roof as I pivoted to watch the strange car speed away.

It fishtailed as it turned the corner to Hesler Street, and although grease and dirt were caked over the plate in a way far too effective to be coincidental, I could just make out a Y and a 7 at the end of the license-plate number.

Dick and Andrea bolted outside, with Dick protectively shoving Andrea behind him as they ran. “Stretch?” Dick yelled.

“Call nine-one-one!” I shouted, leaping off the car and landing near Jamie’s crumpled body. His eyes were wild, unfocused. A scarlet slick flowed from his mouth as he gave weak, gasping coughs. His legs were bent all wrong. A thick pool of blood spread beneath him, soaking through my jeans as I knelt on the pavement.

“Jane? Hurts,” he whimpered.

“Jamie,” I whispered. “Just hold on, OK? We’ll get an ambulance here. You’re going to be just fine.”

Dick, who was kneeling on Jamie’s left side, shook his head. “He’s lost too much blood. Feel his pulse. Listen to his breath. You hear that wet, sucking sound? There’s a lot of internal damage. Even if the ambulance was here already … he won’t make it.”

Dick gave me a meaningful look, and his fangs descended with a soft snick. I snarled and mouthed so only he could hear, “We are not feeding on him!”

“We’re going to turn him, Stretch,” Dick said, exasperated.

“But—”

“Turn me,” Jamie murmured, his voice wet and rough over the crimson bubbles that kept forming under his lips. “Please. Don’t want to die.”

Turn him? I’d never even seen it done, except in my hazy memories of my own crossover into the world of the undead. I looked to the older vampire. “Dick?”

“No, you,” Jamie said, his voice fading with every word. “I trust you. I know you.”

“Should I call?” Andrea asked, holding up the shop’s cordless phone.

His fingers pressed against Jamie’s pulse point, Dick shook his head. He turned to me. “Jane, we need to do something quick.”

“I’ve never turned anyone. I don’t know what to do!”

Dick grabbed my wrist and sank his fangs into my flesh. I yowled as the blood poured from the wound. I glared at him as he pressed the gaping wound to Jamie’s slack mouth. A cascade of red rolled past his chin onto the pavement with little pattering noises. My eyes popped wide when Jamie latched onto my wrist and drew strong swallows of my blood. I brushed his matted, damp hair away from his forehead and slid my legs under his back to let him rest against me.

I was thankful that Jamie seemed less conflicted than I had been when I was turned. Not the least bit hesitant, he was taking blood from me as if he’d been born a vampire. With every draw of my blood, Jamie relaxed a bit more, his strength ebbing from his limbs. He was reaching the last phase, the death of his human body.

Hoarse wheezing sounds filled the street as Jamie struggled to draw breath through his nose. He was suffocating, drowning on dry land as his lungs stopped functioning. He broke away from my wrist, gasping, desperately trying to fill them with air. I remembered that feeling. You can’t think. You’re barely even aware of the pain. All you can focus on is the crushing emptiness in your chest.

“Shh,” I whispered, cupping my free hand to his cheek. His fading green eyes searched mine, for assurance, for answers. I gave him a shaky smile. “This part is never easy, but it will be over soon. And when you wake up, you’ll be like us.”

I pushed my healing wrist against his mouth, letting him take one last weak pull before his eyes fluttered closed. His arms went slack at his sides. His head lolled back against my arm.

Dick squeezed my shoulder gently as we knelt there on the cold pavement and listened to Jamie’s young heart beat its last.

Click through
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of Iris’s story

THE CARE AND FEEDING OF STRAY VAMPIRES
by Molly Harper

Available August 2012 from Pocket Books

The thing to remember about a “stray” vampire is that there is probably a good reason he is friendless, alone, and wounded. Approach with caution.

—The Care and Feeding of Stray Vampires

How did an internal debate regarding flavored sexual aids become part of my workday?

I was a good person. I went to church … on the “big days.” I was a college graduate. Nice, God-fearing people with bachelor’s degrees in botany should not end up standing in the pharmacy aisle at Walmart debating which variety of flavored lube is best.

“Ugh, forget it, I’m going with Sensual Strawberry.” I sighed, throwing the obscenely pink box into the basket.

Diandra Starr—a poorly-thought-out pole name if I’d ever heard one—had managed to snag to the world’s only codependent vampire. My client Mr. Rychek. When she made her quarterly visits to Half-Moon Hollow, I was turned into some bizarre hybrid of both Cinderella and the Fairy Godmother; waking up at dawn to find voicemails and e-mails detailing the myriad needs that must be attended to at once. Mr. Rychek seemed convinced that Diandra would flounce away on her designer platform heels unless her every whim was anticipated and met. No demand for custom-blended bath salts was considered too extravagant. No organic, free-trade food requirement was too extreme. And the lady liked her sexual aids to taste of summer fruits.

I surveyed the contents of the cart against the list. Iron supplements? Check. Organic almond milk? Check. Flavored lube? Check.

I did not pretend to understand the dynamics of human–vampire relationships.

Shopping in the “special dietary needs” aisle was always an adventure. An unexpected side effect of the Great Coming Out in 1999 was the emergence of all-night industries, special products, and cottage businesses, like mine, that catered to the needs of “Undead Americans.” Companies were tripping over one another to come up with products for a spanking new marketing demographic: synthetic blood, protein additives, dental care accessories, lifelike bronzers. The problem was that those companies still hadn’t figured out packaging for the undead, and tended to jump on bizarre trending bandwagons—the most recent being a brand of plasma concentrate that came pouring out of what looked liked Kewpie dolls. You had to flip back the head to open it.

It’s just as creepy as it sounds, if not more so.

Between that and the sporty, aggressively neon tubes of Razor Wire Floss, the clear bubble-shaped pots of Solar Shield SPF-500 sunblock, and the black Gothic boxes of Forever Smooth moisturizing serum, the vampire aisle was ground zero for visual overstimulation.

I stopped in my tracks, pulling my cart to an abrupt halt in the middle of the pharmacy section as I recalled that Rychek’s girlfriend was a vegan. I started to review the label to determine whether the flavored lube was an animal by-product. But I found that I honestly didn’t care. It was 4:20, which meant I had an hour to drop this stuff by Mr. Rychek’s house, drop the service contracts by a new client’s house in Deer Haven, and then get to Half-Moon Hollow High for the volleyball booster meeting. Such was the exotic and glamorous life as the Hollow’s only daytime vampire concierge.

My company, Beeline, was part special-event coordinator, part concierge service, part personal organizer. I took care of all the little details vampires didn’t have time for, or just didn’t want to deal with themselves. Though it was appropriate, I tried avoiding the term “daywalker” unless dealing with established clients. It turns out that if you put an ad for a daywalker service in the yellow pages, you get a lot of calls from people who expect you to scoop Fluffy’s sidewalk leavings. And I was allergic to dogs, and their leavings.

On my sprint to the checkout aisle, I cast a longing glance at the candy aisle and its many forbidden, sugary pleasures. With my compulsive sweet tooth, I did not discriminate against chocolate, gummies, taffy, lollipops, or even those weird so-sour-the-citric-acid-burns-off-your-taste-buds torture candies. But between Gigi’s worries about the potential for adult-onset diabetes in our gene pool and my tendency toward what I prefer to call “curviness,” I only broke into the various candy caches I had stashed around the house under great personal stress. Or if it was a weekday.

Placating myself with a piece of fruity sugarless gum, I whizzed through the express lane and loaded Mr. Rychek’s weekend supplies into what my sister, Gigi, in all her seventeen-year-old sarcastic glory, called the Dorkmobile. I agreed that an enormous yellow minivan was not exactly a sexy car. But until she could suggest another way to haul cases of synthetic blood, Gothic-themed wedding cakes, and, once, a pet crate large enough for a Bengal tiger, I’d told Gigi that she had to suck it up and ride shotgun in the Dorkmobile. The next fall, she’d used her earnings from the Half-Moon Hollow Country Club golf course snack bar to buy a secondhand VW bug. Never underestimate a teenager’s work ethic if the end result is averted embarrassment.

I used my security pass to get past the gate into Deer Haven, a private, secure subdivision inhabited entirely by vampires and their human pets. It was always a little spooky, driving through this perfectly maintained, cookie-cutter ghost-suburb during the day. The streets and driveways were empty. The windows were shuttered tight against the sunlight. Sometimes, I expected tumbleweeds to come bouncing past my car. Then again, I’d never seen the neighborhood awake and hopping after dark. I made it a policy to be well out of my clients’ homes before the sun set. With the exception of the clients whose newly legal weddings I helped plan, I rarely saw any of them face-to-face. I allowed my wedding clients a little more leeway because they were generally too distracted by their own issues to bother nibbling on me. And, still, I only met with them in public places with a lot of witnesses present.

Though it had been nearly ten years since the Great Coming Out and vampire–human relations were vastly improved since the early pitchfork-and-torch days, some vampires were still a bit touchy about humans’ efforts to wipe out their species. They refused to let any human they hadn’t met in person near their home while they were sleeping and vulnerable.

After years of working with them, I had no remaining romantic notions about vampires. They had the same capacity for good and evil that humans do. And despite what most TV evangelists preached, I believed they had souls. The problem was that the cruelest of tendencies can emerge when a person is no longer restricted to the “no biting, no using people as food” rules humans insist upon. If you were a jerk in your original life, you’re probably going to be a bigger undead jerk. If you were a decent person, you’re probably not going to change much beyond your diet and skin-care regimen.

With vampires, you had to be able to operate from a distance, whether that distance was physical or emotional. My business was built on guarded, but optimistic, trust. And a can of vampire pepper spray that I kept in my purse.

I opened the back of my van and hitched the crate of supplies against my hip. I had pretty impressive upper body strength for a petite gal, but it was at times like these, struggling to schlep the crate up Mr. Rychek’s front walk, that I wondered why I’d never hired an assistant.

Oh right, because I couldn’t afford one yet.

Until my little business, Beeline, started showing a profit margin just above “lemonade stand,” I would have to continue toting my own barge and lifting my own bale. I looked forward to the day that heavy lifting wouldn’t determine my wardrobe or hairstyle. On days like this, I tended toward sensible flats, twin sets, and pencil skirts in dark, smudge-proof colors. I liked to throw in a pretty blouse every once in a while, but it depended on whether I thought I could wash synthetic blood out of it. (No matter how careful you are, sometimes there are mishaps.)

And the hair. It was difficult for human companions, blood-bank staff, and storekeepers to take me seriously when I walked around with a crazy cloud of dark curls framing my head. Having Diana Ross’s ’do didn’t exactly inspire confidence, so I twisted my hair into a thick coil at the nape of my neck. Gigi called it my “sexy librarian” look, having little sympathy for me and my frizz. But since we shared the same unpredictable follicles, I was biding my time until she got her first serious job and realized how difficult it was to be considered a professional when your hair was practically sentient.

I used another keyless entry code to let myself into Mr. Rychek’s tidy little town house. Some American vampires lived in groups of threes and fours in what vampire behaviorists called “nesting,” but most of my clients, like Mr. Rychek, were loners. They had little habits and quirks that would annoy anyone, human or immortal, after a few centuries. So they lived alone and relied on people like me to bring the outside world to them.

I put the almond milk in the fridge and discreetly tucked the other items into a kitchen cabinet. I checked the memo board for further requests and was relieved to find none. I only hoped I could get through Diandra’s visit without being called to find a twenty-four-hour emergency vet service for her hypoallergenic cat, Ginger. That stupid furball had some sort of weird fascination with prying open remote controls and swallowing the batteries. And somehow, Diandra was always shocked when it happened.

As an afterthought, I moved Mr. Rychek’s remote from the coffee table to the top of the TV.

One more stop. I had just one stop left before I could put in my time at the booster meeting, go home, and bury myself in the romance novel I’d squirreled away inside the dust jacket for The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. If Gigi saw the bare-chested gladiator on the cover, the mockery would be inventive and, mostly likely, public.

My new client’s house was conveniently located in the newer section of Deer Haven, at the end of a long row of matching beige condos. As usual, I had to count the house numbers three times before I was sure I was at the right door, and I wondered how wrong it would be to bookmark my clients’ doors with big fluorescent yellow bumblebees.

Entering the security code provided on his new-client application, I popped the door open, carrying my usual “Thank you for supporting Beeline” floral arrangement inside. Most vampires enjoyed waking up to fresh flowers. The sight and smell reminded them of their human days, when they could wander around in the daylight unscathed. And they didn’t have to know I’d harvested the artfully arranged roses, irises, and freesia from my own garden. The appearance of an expensive gift was more important than the actual cost of said gift.

Mr. C. Calix certainly hadn’t wasted any money on redecorating, I mused as I walked into the bare beige foyer and set the vase on the generic maple end table. The place was dark, which was to be expected, given the sunproof metal shades clamped over the windows. But there was little furniture in the living room, no dining room table, no art or pictures on the clean taupe walls. The place looked barely lived in, even for a dead guy’s house.

Scraping past a few cardboard packing boxes, I walked into the kitchen, where I’d agreed to leave the contracts. My foot caught on a soft weight on the floor. “Mother of fudge!” I yelped, then fell flat on my face.

Have I mentioned that I haven’t cursed properly in about five years? With an impressionable kid around the house, I’d taken to using the “safe for network TV” version of curse words. Though that impressionable kid was now seventeen, I couldn’t seem to break the habit. Even with my face smashed against cold tile.

“Frak frakity frak,” I moaned, rubbing my bruised mouth as I righted myself from the floor. I ran my tongue over my teeth to make sure I hadn’t broken any of them. Because honestly, I wasn’t sure I could afford dental intervention at this point. My skinned knees—and my pride—stung viciously as I re-counted my teeth for good measure.

What had I tripped over? I wondered. I pushed to my feet and stumbled over to the fridge and yanked the door open. The interior light clicked on, illuminating the dead body stretched across the floor.

Shrieking, I scrambled back against the fridge, my dress shoes skittering uselessly against the tile. I couldn’t seem to swallow the lump of panic hardening in my throat, keeping me from drawing a breath.

The corpse was huge, with long, rangy limbs and narrow, highly arched feet. Dark waves of hair sprang over his forehead in an inky profusion. The face would have been beautiful if it hadn’t been covered in dried blood. A straight nose, high cheekbones, full, generous lips that bowed slightly. He had that whole Michelangelo’s David thing going. If David had been a creepy religious figurine that wept blood.

A half-empty bottle of Faux Type O lay splattered against the floor, which explained the rusty-looking dried splotches on his face. Had he been drinking it when he … passed out?

Vampires didn’t pass out. And most of them could sense when to get somewhere safe well before the sun rose. They didn’t get caught off guard and collapse wherever they were at dawn. What the hell was going on here?

I eyed my shoulder bag, flung across the room when I’d fallen on my face. Breathing steadily, I resolved that I’d call Ophelia at the local Council for the Equal Treatment of the Undead office and leave her a message. She would know what to do. And I could get the hell out of here before the hungry, wounded vampire rose for the night and made me into his breakfast.

I reached over him, aiming my arm away from his mouth. A strong hand clamped around my wrist. I am ashamed to say I screamed like a little girl. I heard the telltale snick of fangs descending and panicked, yanking and struggling against a relentless vise grip. A tug-of-war ensued for control of the arm he was pulling toward his chapped, bloodied lips. He tried to lunge for me, but the effort cost him, and his head thunked back to the floor with a heavy thud.

With my hand hovering precariously over his gaping, hungry mouth, I did the only thing I could think of—I poked him in the eye.

“Ow,” he said, dully registering pain as I jabbed my index finger against his eyelid. The other eye popped open, the long sooty lashes fluttering. It was a deep, rich coffee color, the iris ringed in black.

“Ow!” he repeated indignantly, as if the sensation of the eye-poke was just breaking through his stupor.

With him distracted, I gave one final yank and broke free, holding my hand to my chest as I retreated against the fridge. I took another Faux Type O from the shelf. I popped it open and held it carefully to his lips, figuring that he wouldn’t care that it wasn’t heated to body temperature. He shook his head faintly, wheezing, “Bad blood.”

I checked the expiration date and offered it to him again. “No, it’s fine.”

His dry lips nearly cracked as they formed the words, “Poisoned … stupid.”

“OK … jackass,” I shot back.

The faintest flicker of amusement passed over his even features. “Need clean supply,” he whispered.

“Well, I’m not giving you mine,” I said, shrinking away from him. “I don’t do that.”

“Just wait to die, then,” he muttered. I had to bite my lips to keep from snickering or giggling hysterically. I was sure that crouching over him, laughing, while he was vulnerable and agitated wouldn’t improve the situation.

Shouting for him to hold on, I scurried out to my car, carefully shutting the door behind me so that sunlight didn’t spill into the kitchen. I had a case of Faux Type O in the back, destined for Ms. Wexler’s house the next day. I grabbed three bottles from the package and ran back into the house. Sadly, it only occurred to me after I’d run back into the house that I should have just grabbed my purse, jumped into my van, and gunned it all the way home.

But no, I had to take care of vampires with figurative broken wings, because of my stupid Good Samaritan complex.

Kneeling beside the fallen vampire, I twisted the top off the first bottle and offered it to him. “I’m sure this is clean. The tamper-proof seal’s intact.”

He gave the bottle a doubtful, guarded look, but took it from my hand. He greedily gulped his way through the first bottle, grimacing at the cold offering. Meanwhile, I popped the other two bottles in the microwave. I even dropped a penny in each one after heating to give them a more authentic coppery taste.

“Thank you,” he murmured, forcing himself into a sitting position, though the effort clearly exhausted him. He slumped against the pine cabinets. Like all of the Deer Haven homes, the kitchen was done in pastel earth tones—buffs, beiges, and creams. Mr. Calix looked like a wax figure sagging against the pale wood. “Who are you and what are you doing in my house?”

“I’m Iris Scanlon, from Beeline. The concierge service? Ophelia Lambert arranged your service contract before you arrived in the Hollow. I came by to drop off the paperwork.”

He nodded his magnificent dark head slowly. “She mentioned something about a daywalker, said I could trust you.”

I snorted. Ophelia only said that because I hadn’t asked questions that time she put heavy duty trash bags, lime, and a shovel on her shopping list. The teenage leader of the local World Council for the Equal Treatment of the Undead office might have looked sweet sixteen, but at more than four hundred years old, Ophelia, I’m pretty sure, had committed felonies in every hemisphere.

Scary felonies.

“Well, you seem to be feeling a bit better. I’ll leave these papers here and be on my way, then,” I said, inching around him.

“Stop,” he commanded me, his voice losing its raspy quality as he pushed to his feet. I froze, looking up at him through lowered lashes. His face was fuller somehow, less haggard. He seemed to be growing a little stronger with every sip of blood. “I need your help.”

“How could I help you?”

“You already have helped.” As he spoke, I picked up on the faint trace of an accent, a sort of caress of the tongue against each finishing syllable. It sounded … old, which was a decidedly unhelpful concept when dealing with a vampire. And since most vamps didn’t like talking about their backstories, I ignored the sexy lilt and its effects on my pulse rate. “And now I need you to take me home with you.”

“Why would I take an unstable, hungry vampire home with me? Do I look particularly stupid to you?”

He snorted. “No, which is why you should take me home with you. I already know where you live. While you were running to your car, I looked in your purse and memorized your driver’s license. Imagine how irritated I would be, how motivated I would be to find you and repay your kindness, after I am well again.”

I gasped, clutching my bag closer to my chest. “Don’t you threaten me! There seem to be a lot of handy, breakable wooden objects in this room. I’m not above living out my fonder Buffy fantasies.”

His expression was annoyed, but contrite. Mostly annoyed. He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, that was out of line. But I need to find a safe shelter before dark falls. I have a feeling someone may be coming by to finish me off. No sane person would attack me while I was at full strength.”

I believed it, but it didn’t stop me from thinking Mr. Calix was a bit full of himself. “How do I know that you won’t drain me as soon as you stabilize?”

“I don’t do that,” he said, echoing my earlier pronouncement, and took my bag from my hands. I tried snatching it back, but he held it just out of my grasp, like some elementary school bully with a My Little Pony backpack.

Scowling at him, I crossed my arms over my chest. “Considering you just vaguely threatened me, I have a hard time believing that.”

“Check my wallet, on the counter.”

I flipped open the expensive-looking leather folio and found what looked like a shiny gold policeman’s badge. “You’re an investigator for the Council? In terms of credibility, that means nothing to me. I’ve met Ophelia.”

His lips twitched.

“Why can’t you just call her?” I asked. “She’s your Council rep. This should be reported to her anyway.”

“I can’t call her. The Council supplied me with that blood,” he said, giving a significant look to the discarded bottle on the floor. “I can’t trust the Council. I can’t check into a hotel or seek help from friends without being tracked.”

“I have a little sister who lives with me. I’m not going to let you drag us into your vampire bullcrap.” I grunted, making a grab for my bag as his tired arms drooped. “I am not running a stop on the vampire underground railroad.”

“I can pay you an obscene amount of money.”

I’m ashamed to say that that stilled my hand. If anything would make me consider this bizarre scheme, it was money. My parents had died nearly five years before, leaving me to raise my little sister without much in the way of life insurance or savings. I needed money for Gigi’s ever-looming college tuition. I needed money to keep up the house, to pay off the home equity loan I’d taken out for Beeline’s start-up capital. I needed money to keep us in the food Gigi insisted on eating. And despite the fact that the business was finally becoming somewhat successful, I always seemed to just cover our expenses, with a tiny bit left over to throw at my own rabid student loan officers. Something always seemed to pop up and eat away at our extra cash—car repairs, fees for a school trip, explosive air-conditioning failure.

An obscene amount of money would provide enough of a cushion that I might be able to sleep for more than handful of hours per night. Mr. Calix slid to the floor, apparently drained by the effort of playing purse keep-away.

“How obscene?” I asked, coughing suddenly to chase the meek note from my voice.

“Ten thousand dollars for a week.”

I quickly calculated the estimate to replace the aging pipes in my house, plus Gigi’s first semester tuition and the loan payment due next month, against what the Council paid even the lowest of its underlings. I shook my head and made a counteroffer. “Twenty-five thousand.”

“Fifteen thousand.”

I pursed my lips. “I’m still saying twenty-five thousand.”

“Which means you never quite learned how negotiating works.”

It was a struggle, tensing my lips enough to avoid smirking. “How badly do you want to get off that floor, Mr. Calix?”

He grumbled. “Done.”

“One week,” I said as I knelt in front of him, my voice firmer than I would have thought possible under the circumstances. “That means seven nights. Not seven days and eight nights. Not seven and a half nights. Seven nights.”

“Done.”

“Excellent.” I gave him my sunniest “professional” smile and offered my hand for a shake.

“Don’t push it,” he muttered, closing his eyes.

I sighed, pulling my cell phone out of my bag to call Gigi. I wasn’t going to make that booster meeting after all.

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