All This and Family, Too

Adjusting to life as a vampire hasn't been easy for Cynthia. Her partner murdered, stalked by a demented preacher-turned-vampire hunter, and forced to move across country from North Carolina to Irvine, California, Cynthia tackles undeath one battle at a time. With the help of her devoted grandmother, trusted brother, and Josie, a distracting runaway, Cynthia comes to realize that it is not walking in sunshine that makes a person human, and living in the shadows might shed light on the things most important to her survival-family, love, and controlling her thirst for blood.

Driving cross-country at night was such a loss, Cynthia Leach thought as I-40 disappeared under her tires. A trip across this great country of ours should be a broadening experience, the stuff of cultural enrichment, and none of the historical sites are open. Outside her window sped a blur of purple-black plains, spotted in places with the brighter warm shapes of cattle. She could be in Arkansas or even Oklahoma by now; she wasn’t sure anymore. It probably wasn’t Texas yet–no signs of oil derricks.

The satellite station barked out Bartok and she poked at the controls: there had to be something decent on. Her Vivaldi and Mozart CDs had preceded her out of Carrsboro, packed away with the rest of her belongings. She finally settled on a soft jazz station. Anything to break the silence of the empty passenger seat beside her.

If only she hadn’t insisted on staying until the end of the summer session. If only…

Damn Reverend W. Robert Merrimon, anyway. Correction, the former Reverend W. Robert Merrimon. She’d only tried to help his daughter. Now Pen was gone, she had been turned into a vampire, and she’d been forced to leave North Carolina altogether. Other people were rewarded when they did the right thing. Why not her?

Two upright shapes among the cattle distracted her from her brooding–people, awake at this time of night? Farm hands, perhaps? One was large and thick, the other smaller and slight in build. The larger shape led the smaller one away from the road–and the smaller one was struggling to pull away.

Not farm hands. Cynthia swerved onto the shoulder and brought the Land Rover to an abrupt halt. Her fingers sought and curled around the large flashlight she always kept in the side pocket. Not that she needed it to see in the dark anymore, but it had other uses.

Gravel slid under her feet as she scrambled out of the vehicle into the crushing heat of the August night. She scanned the field to regain her bearings. There, spread through the tall dry grasses, were the cattle; and past them, near the only stand of trees in the area, two human figures struggling in the light of the waxing moon. When she was alive, she would only have been able to make out the edges of the movement. Now, the radiance of the heavens outlined everything, illuminating trees and hills with colors she had never known before. Her speed amazed her as she ran to the fence, vaulted it without breaking stride, and rushed across the grass towards the pair.

The smaller figure was slender. Female. When the man grabbed her shoulders and turned her, Cynthia got a good look at her features. She couldn’t be older than fifteen or sixteen. The girl was thrashing back and forth in the man’s grip. He was trying to force her down into the gathered tree trunks. A flash of teeth appeared as the girl opened her mouth, then they disappeared into the man’s arm. He hissed an oath and shoved her head into a pillar of bark.

Closing in on the pair, Cynthia couldn’t fight the feeling of déjà vu. This was how her problems had started in the first place. The couple separated, and she saw her chance. She swung the flashlight down on top of the man’s graying scalp, and it met bone with a heavy crunch. He staggered and fell across his intended victim. The girl squealed in outrage and kicked.

Cynthia shoved the man off the girl and extended a hand. “Are you all right?”

The rescuee squinted up at Cynthia, studying her, and then accepted the offered hand. “I think so.” She ran her fingers through the heavy dark curls on the back of her head. “Ouch!”

“You might have a concussion. I should take you to get that checked. Where is the nearest hospital?”

“Hell if I know. I’m not from here. And I’m not going to no hospital. I’ll be all right.”

“Any hospital,” Cynthia automatically corrected. “And you will go to one if you’re hurt.”

The girl prodded at the back of her head again. “I think I’m just going to have a knot there. I have a thick skull.”

“Let me be the judge of that.” Cynthia moved the short but broad hands aside and felt for herself. “Yep, feels like a knot to me.”

“We ought to go before he wakes up. If he wakes up, of course. You whacked him pretty hard.”

“We should really call the police.”

“No way! I’m not getting in trouble.”

Cynthia picked up the flashlight and tested it. Dented, but it still worked. She wasn’t so sure about the man. She didn’t see any sign of breathing. This was trouble, for sure–and she certainly couldn’t spend a lot of time answering police questions. The sun would be up before she knew it. “Sweetie, you’re in trouble already. You were in it when I stopped.”

“Don’t call me sweetie.”

“Well, what’s your name?”

“Josie.”

“Josie what?”

The girl ignored her and began poking around in the man’s pockets.

“He might come to, you know,” Cynthia warned.

“What do you think I am, chicken?” the teen snorted. “If he moves, I’ll just whack him again.”

“What are you looking for?”

There was a jingle from Josie’s hand as she stood. “These.”

Suspicion prickled through Cynthia. “Why do you need his keys?”

“Well, duh. I’m in the country in the middle of the night with a possible dead guy. I’m not sticking around till the police come.”

“You don’t even look old enough to have a license.”

“I have a permit.”

“In that case, may I see it?”

“You sure are nosy,” Josie complained, and headed down the hill.

Cynthia followed. Had anyone seen her pull over, or noticed her vehicle on the road? Would they remember it later? Then there was the girl to consider, and the old Chrysler that probably belonged to the man lying under the trees.

“Wait a minute.”

The teen walked faster.

“Josie, wait!” Cynthia forced authority into her voice. The girl stopped. “Whether this man is dead or not, the police will be looking for his car. You don’t want to be pulled over in it. What happened is your word against his, and if you take his car... it won’t look good.”

“Okay, what do you suggest I do?”

“Don’t you have a family?”

“Didn’t I tell you? That was my Uncle Ernie, and he was the only relative I had. Now you’re telling me I can’t drive my inheritance.”

Cynthia had assumed that the man had been planning to assault Josie. She now revised her opinion: he had merely decided to strangle her after talking to her for fifteen minutes or so. “Get in my car.”

“Where are you headed?”

“California.”

“Okay. But hey, I need my stuff. I have a backpack in there. And my knife. I gotta have my knife. It’s a Case.”

“Go get in my car,” Cynthia repeated, exasperated, “and stay put. I’ll get them.” Cynthia double-checked her pants pockets to verify that her own keys were there and not in the ignition, and then approached the other car. It was an older model, and the door groaned when she opened the passenger side. A backpack lay on the floorboard, and she set it outside, next to the back tire.

Fingerprints–there were still fingerprints to deal with. She pulled her handkerchief out and wiped down the dash, the door handles, the seat, and anything else Josie might have touched. A glint caught her eye; she found the pocketknife, partially open, between the seats. She debated keeping it while Josie rode with her, and then decided that it would only make the girl suspicious, everything considered. What damage could a knife do to a vampire, anyway?

The girl was sitting in the driver’s seat when she got back to the Rover, grinning. “Nice ride.”

“Move over. I’m the only driver here.”

“Hey, I’m just trying to make sure you don’t do what that old guy did. Gonna be the one in control this time.”

“I said, move over.” Cynthia chucked the backpack at her.

Josie grumbled and climbed over to the passenger side. “How am I supposed to learn to drive, if no one gives me a chance?”

Cynthia found herself in a bathtub. What was she doing here? There wasn’t even any water in the tub. Then she remembered: she was a vampire now. Do Not Disturb sign on the outside door, all curtains drawn, bathroom with no windows, bathroom door locked and hotel towels lining the crack between door and floor, shower curtain drawn across tub. Really, sleeping on the road wasn’t complicated at all.

Something nagged at the back of her mind. Oh, yes–the child. She’d gotten Josie her own room the night before, which was easier than explaining why she’d be holed up in the bathroom all day. She should let the girl know she was awake, although there was a good chance Josie was gone. It was fairly obvious that the girl was a runaway.

Cynthia approached the mirror. It reflected her image, which was a relief. Some mirrors seemed to work for her, while others didn’t. Her bathroom mirror back in North Carolina had worked fine, but the old mirror on Grandma’s vanity just showed the bookshelves behind her. It made no sense to her: light either reflected from an object or it didn’t.

She spread and inspected her hair first, spreading the auburn strands. The shower should have removed any evidence of blood spatter, but it didn’t hurt to double-check. All clear. She checked her face next, then her chest, neck, and ears. They were clean. Her eyes caught the artificial light and reflected amber, making her wince. She’d never liked her eyes–hazel with brown freckles that shifted seasonally–but now they had a feral quality that scared her at times.

Her shirt, rinsed out the night before and hung from the towel rack, was still moist to the touch. She used the blow dryer to dry the shirt completely, no sense letting it mildew in the duffle bag with her clean clothes. The peroxide had removed the remainder of the blood stains from the fabric. Good. When the shirt seemed sufficiently dry, she packed it and unrolled a fresh tee for the evening. Time to go next door to see if she still had company. If the girl was there, she was probably hungry.

She opened the door and stopped short. Her car. Where was her car? Cynthia shoved her hands into her pockets. Cards, change, cash were all there. Keys? Her fingers closed around the geode hanging from the ring, and she pulled it out. Yes, keys. Josie must have hot-wired the Rover. All her important things were in that car –her telescopes, too delicate for the moving van, the rest of her clothing, her legal papers, even the directions to her new home. Her grandmother would think she was such a fool.

Cynthia sat on the bed, debating whether to call the police or not, when she heard a vehicle outside. The sound of the motor grew louder in the general area of the door, and then abruptly quieted. A moment later, there was a short, sharp rap at the door. It was Josie. Cynthia stared down at her, not knowing whether to kiss or sock the girl.

Finally, the vampire sputtered, “Where have you been? What have you been doing? And who do you think you are, taking my car to do it?”

“I just wanted to look around. See the sights. What does it matter? You were asleep, so you weren’t using it.” Noting the glare, Josie added, “I brought the car back in one piece. I was real careful.”

“Really careful. But if you ever take my car again, I will break your arm.”

“Um... right. Won’t do that again, then.”

They rode in non-companionable silence for a while before Josie spoke. “Most people travel during the day, so they have the light.”

“It’s too hot during the day.” It was better than the truth.

“It is pretty hot here. So, where are we going in California? Hollywood?”

“No, Irvine.”

“Irvine? Where’s that?”

“It’s between Los Angeles and San Diego.”

“Oh, okay. I can hitch from there.”

“Hitching hasn’t proved very safe for you so far. There are lots of men like ‘Uncle Ernie’ out there. Where are you from, originally?”

Josie eyed her. “What makes you think I’m not from here?”

“Because you said you weren’t local last night when I suggested taking you to a hospital. What town are you from?”

“None of your business.”

“I see. And I suppose I should have minded my own business back there, and let that man rape and maybe even kill you?”

“Hey, I’m glad you showed up. But that doesn’t put you in charge of my life.”

Cynthia wished the girl would shut up again. She was getting a headache.

She was also getting hungry.

They were about fifty miles outside of Albuquerque when Josie announced that she had to make an important stop at the upcoming rest area.

“We’re probably going to stop for good in about an hour. Can’t you hold it?”

“You said we were going to stop for good in Tucumcari, but then you changed your mind. My bladder doesn’t trust you anymore. Don’t you ever have to pee?”

Oops. “Well, sure I do. I’ve had to go for a while, but I was trying to push on. Sure, let’s stop.”

Cynthia eased her foot off the accelerator and nosed the car off the highway at the blue sign. She could have sworn there were lights behind them on the highway, but no car passed. Perhaps she was getting tired. Could a vampire get tired? Maybe it was the hunger. How was she supposed to find blood with a teenager in tow?

When she pulled into the parking space, the girl threw the door open and jumped out. She set off for the building at a dead run.

By reflex, Cynthia locked the door behind her. Then she got out, hoping that the bathroom was one-person so she could just run some water in the sink. She had nearly reached the ladies’ room when she heard footsteps behind her. They sounded heavy and masculine.

She spun and found herself confronted by a burly figure: the Reverend W. Robert Merrimon. The permanent anger lines in his face deepened into a snarl.

“I have you now, Jezebel! Foul creature!” He lunged for her. His moon-faced nephew, Buford Burford, hovered nearby. Buford’s stare of fear wakened Cynthia’s sense of guilt. She’d bitten and nearly killed him back in Chapel Hill. She reacted a millisecond late, and Merrimon seized her. He pulled her into the shadows.

“Get it out, Bu!” He was pushing her down on the sidewalk now, and behind him the younger man pulled a stick out of his jacket sleeve. It was sharp on the end. Good Lord, were they actually going to try a stake on her?

She grabbed the Reverend’s arms and shoved him. He went flying up, back into one of the concrete supports. Buford scuttled around both of them, clutching his weapon so hard his knuckles were pale. It looked like it had been a chair leg in its former life.

Cynthia warily turned, keeping her eyes on him. He feinted, and she hissed. She didn’t realize she could do that till it came out of her, but there it was–a genuine hiss. Buford responded by jumping back.

“Get out of here,” she growled. “I left, didn’t I? I didn’t ask you to follow me.”

“Um, no you didn’t,” Buford stuttered. “Uncle Wilbur, he-”

“Shut up, Buford!” The Reverend was afoot and edging to Cynthia’s other side, trapping her between them. She followed him with her gaze; even unarmed, he was the more dangerous of the two. “You didn’t think I’d let you get away with it, did you?”

Suddenly, there was a howl, and Josie was on Buford’s back. “Help! Uncle Wilbur!” he shrieked, struggling to break free of the girl’s leglock. “They got me!”

Merrimon hesitated and Cynthia seized the opening. A left punch to his stomach and he doubled over; an uppercut to the jaw and down he went. She kicked him once for good measure, and then spun to save Josie.

It appeared that Josie didn’t need saving. She had gotten the stake away from Buford and was whacking every part of him she could reach. For his part, Buford was yelping and trying to yank her free arm from around his neck.

“Stop fooling around. We need to get out of here.” Cynthia grabbed his arms. “Jump off.”

“Awww…” But Josie did as she was told.

Cynthia dealt another uppercut and Buford lay sprawled near his uncle. “Let’s go.”

They bolted for the car and Cynthia jumped into the driver’s seat. She got the motor started, and then turned to the seat beside her. It was empty. Through the window, she saw the girl crouched by the old Chevy, slashing its tires.

Cynthia hit the horn. “Get over here!” she shouted. One of the figures on the distant sidewalk was stirring.

Josie snapped the pocketknife shut and ran to the Range Rover. Cynthia lay down rubber pulling out of the lot. Once she was sure that they weren’t being followed, Cynthia noticed that Josie wasn’t wearing her seat belt. “You need to buckle up.”

“Oh, yeah, we’re speeding. Don’t worry, though–they won’t be going anywhere for a while.” The teen clicked the belt closed.

“Apparently not.” Cynthia eased up on the accelerator.

“That was really cool. Where did you learn to fight like that?”

“My father was in the military. He taught us how to box.”

“Us?”

“My brother, too. I was always better than him, though.”

“Wow. Hey, did you ever get to pee?”

“I guess I’ll just have to hold it a little longer.”

They made it into Albuquerque without further incident and found a hotel just off the exit. By now, Cynthia was dizzy with hunger, but she maintained control. When Josie opened the door to the first hotel room, though, Cynthia seized her and dragged her to the bed. The struggle was short. It took all her will to stop herself before she drank the girl dry.

Josie fell onto the mattress, a smear of blood on her neck. Cynthia frantically grabbed the teen’s arm and put a thumb on her wrist. Nothing. Her panic rose. She peeled open the jeans jacket and put her ear to Josie’s chest. The skin was already cool against her cheek and she tried not to cry. Then, very faintly, she heard a throb. Yes! The heart was beating, but unsteadily.

Now she had to take the girl to the hospital, which was going to lead to a lot of questions with no good answers. It probably would have been easier if the girl had died–then she could just give her some of her blood, and make her into another vampire. It’s what Penelope had done to her.

This crazy idea was followed by an even crazier one: if vampire blood brought the dead back, it must enter the system somehow. Either the dead person was swallowing it, or it was passing through the mouth membranes. Perhaps, in a live person, it would just put the blood back...? Cynthia bared her arm and punctured her own wrist with one fang. She parted Josie’s lips, which were smiling faintly, and held the wound over them. Please let this work, she prayed, willing her blood to flow.

After a moment, Josie sighed and began to stir. Cynthia sat back on the mattress, relieved.

“What happened?” the girl asked. “I don’t remember lying down.”

Cynthia gulped. “You fainted.” The lie was strange on her tongue.

“Fainted? Why would I do that?” She started to sit up, and then fell back. “Maybe I did faint. I feel awfully weird.”

“Hitchhiking is probably bad for the diet. I think maybe I should go get you something to eat, maybe something with iron and B vitamins. You just stay here and rest.”

The girl murmured assent, closed her eyes, and fell to sleep.

Cynthia tried not to stare or show her fear as Josie ate. Thank heavens for all-night drive-throughs and convenience stores. She hadn’t been sure which foods would help, so she’d bought a wide selection of items. Bottles and bags surrounded the bed.

“You’re a vampire.”

“What?”

“You’re a vampire.” Josie took another slug of Gatorade. A carton of milk sat nearby, ignored.

Cynthia forced a laugh. “A vampire? There’s no such thing as vampires.”

“You drank my blood.”

“You fainted and had a nightmare, Josie.”

“Yeah, after you drank my blood.”

“There’s no such thing as vampires.”

“Which is why those guys had a stake instead of a gun. They’re vampire hunters!”

“There’s no such thing as vampires,” Cynthia repeated. “Didn’t your parents tell you that? Have some trail mix.”

“My parents are wrong about a lot of stuff.” Josie drained the plastic bottle and peered into the McDonalds bag. “No fries?”

“Fries are bad for you.”

“Yeah, well so is having my blood drunk.”

The hamburger disappeared in four bites, which didn’t give Cynthia much time to think. “No one drank your blood. You had a strange dream.”

“Which is why I have a mark on my neck. That’s why you put your shirt on me. It’s not because I’m cold, it’s because it has a high collar.” She pulled the cream-colored fabric away from her throat to reveal the mark, which Cynthia had wiped clean of blood. All that was left of the puncture wounds was a hickey with two small bumps.

“Those are just bug bites.”

“Bug bites don’t feel good. And I’m not the only one who thinks you’re a vampire. What about those guys back at the rest stop? Wouldn’t they have come up with a better weapon if they were just robbers? Like, say, a gun?”

Cynthia growled. “Okay, I’m a vampire.”

“Get out!” Josie squealed. “Really?”

They exited off SR 73 at the Vendover exit and, after a mile of gas stations and strip malls, the concrete spaghetti gave way to a double-laned road with actual vegetation growing along the sides. The entrance to the Slippery Elm Community was about a mile from the exit, and Cynthia thought this was an odd choice for a place name in California. The tree was, like her, a native of North Carolina. Scraggly specimens of the namesake did grow to each side of the faux-brick hut that constituted the gatehouse, however. Parked nearby was a compact car with an outline of a generic elm stamped on the side and a yellow light on top.

When they pulled up to the gate, the rent-a-cop came out of the hut’s small office. “Sorry, but visitors aren’t allowed onto the property after 9 PM on Sundays.”

“I’m not visiting. I’m going to be residing. My name is Cynthia Leach, and my grandmother is a homeowner here. Eleanor Chambers?”

“Let me check.” He retreated to the hut. After a few moments, the gate lifted and he waved them down the road.

Hills awash with blond grass rose around them as they turned from circle to court. Pale villas with accent lights nestled here and there on the rocky hills, partially concealed by tufts of ornamental grass.

Cynthia glanced at Josie in time to see the girl mouth “Oh my God”. Her face, lit by the street lamps, was reflected in the car window. Josie’s dark eyes were wide and darting everywhere.

Cynthia chuckled. “Looks like a nice neighborhood, doesn’t it?”

“You didn’t say you were rich,” Josie scolded. “You should have told me you were rich.”

“I’m not rich–my grandmother just lives very well.”

“Yeah, I’m getting that idea.”

They arrived in front of 2201 Forest Trail after a couple of wrong turns. It was a cul-de-sac, which made no sense at first, but then Cynthia saw a concrete path leading into a stand of trees. She remembered Grandma saying that the house was supposed to be within walking distance of the golf course. It was hardly a ‘forest’, but there certainly weren’t many trees anywhere else.

Cynthia studied her new home. It looked like it should have four bedrooms, as the realtor had promised, but the construction was modular, as if someone had stuck squares of marzipan together. Maybe this was the earthquake resistant architecture she’d read about.

The gate beside the garage opened as they pulled up into the driveway. Out came a slender woman, fine-boned, with hair that had turned more sugar than spice over the years. She wore short sleeves in deference to the heat, but the creases in her pants hadn’t wilted yet.

“Who’s that?” Josie shrunk behind the dash.

“That’s my grandmother.”

“She doesn’t look like a grandma. She looks like a teacher or something.”

“She is, or was. Professor of literature, retired.”

Josie shrank further. Cynthia laughed and shut off the engine. “She doesn’t bite. Unless you bite her first.” She climbed out of the Rover and ran into a hug. “Grandma!”

“Cynthia! You made it after all. Was it a hard trip?”

“You don’t know the half of it. Merrimon found me again.”

The wrinkles around her grandmother’s blue eyes deepened. “Oh, no. Are you all right?”

“Yes, but I don’t know how he found me.”

Grandma noticed the teen scrunched in the passenger seat and went over to peer in the window. “Who is this?”

“Come on,” Cynthia said, and pulled the door open. The girl slouched out of the car. “Say hello to my grandmother.”

“Hello.” Josie shoved her hands in her pockets, and then pulled one back out to shake hands with the old woman.

Grandma studied the passenger, and then pursed her lips. “Isn’t she a little young for you?”

“Grandma! This is Josie. I sort of got her out of a bad spot in Arkansas.”

“Oklahoma,” the passenger corrected.

“I’m sure it was still Arkansas. Either that, or we took the long way across Oklahoma.”

“Oklahoma’s like that. It seems like the long way whichever way you go.”

Grandma continued to study the girl. “Josie who?”

“Just Josie,” Cynthia answered with a sigh. “She didn’t have anywhere to go, it seems, and followed me home.”

“I’m going to L.A., Hollywood,” Josie announced. “Or maybe San Diego. I haven’t decided yet.”

“Ah. I’m Eleanor Chambers; pleased to meet you,” Grandma said. “While you’re deciding, why don’t you help Cynthia set the table? I have enough stew in the crock pot to share.”

“Sure. Where’s the kitchen?”

“Follow me.” She turned and led them through a gallery lined with windows on one side and family pictures on the other. Cynthia’s father, young and sharp in his Navy uniform, stared down with faded sternness on them from a dark wood frame, and Grandpa Chambers, Cynthia’s mother on his arm, beamed from a black-and-white prom night. There stood her parents on their wedding day, both in dress whites. This was followed with the inevitable baby pictures of Cynthia and Christophe. The final photograph, near the end of the hall, was a small snapshot of Cynthia’s parents in Iraq. Cynthia had very few personal memories of her mother.

“The kitchen is to our right,” Grandma said. “Qui est elle?” She said it casually, gesturing to a large area with an oversized island in the center for food preparation.

“It suits you very well,” Cynthia answered. “Je veux connaître. You’ve always wanted a country-style kitchen. J’ai trouve elle en route...”

“What’s that you’re saying? That other language?”

Grandma patted Josie’s shoulder. “C’est Francais, cherie. The language of chefs.”

Josie looked skeptical.

Soon, they were eating in the dining room. It had a fireplace and French doors on one side that opened to a small porch. A book sat on one of the Adirondack chairs overlooking the sloping back yard. Grandma had already made herself at home.

“Great stew,” Josie complimented. “I didn’t know rich people cooked for themselves.”

“Josie!” Cynthia hissed, but the old woman laughed.

“I also do my own dishes, dear, when Christophe isn’t here.”

Cynthia found a carrot in her dish, a rice bowl filled with stew juices, and fished it out with her spoon. Her capacity for solid food was much reduced these days–nonexistent, to tell the truth. She balanced the orange disk on the edge of her unused bread plate.

The teenager, emboldened by the older woman’s casual attitude, pressed further. “You don’t have a maid or something? This is a really big house; I’d hate to be the one in charge of dusting.”

“They have a service here I may try out, if I do any serious entertaining. If you find any dust, though, feel free to sweep it up. Every little bit helps.”

Josie snorted and took a mouthful of meat. “I was wondering,” she said, stopping in mid-sentence to swallow loudly, “if maybe I could stay here for a day or two before I hit the road. I have, um, travel fatigue.”

“I’m sure we can find a corner for you somewhere. Have you decided where you’re going yet?”

“No, still debating. In my head, you know.”

Grandma looked puzzled. “I thought Hollywood was beckoning.”

“Well, I don’t know if I’m ready for Hollywood yet.”

The older woman nodded. “There are a lot of people out there who would want to take advantage of a young starlet. Unscrupulous managers wanting to exploit your talent, directors who would want to… do they still refer to it as the ‘casting couch’?” At Josie’s blank expression, she sighed. “It seems to me that reviewing your options first is a good idea. Why don’t you stay here while you do? They say all the great actresses seek seclusion at critical moments in their careers.”

“I don’t want to be an actress, doing all that fluffy stuff and starving myself. I’d rather do special effects. You know, explosions and gadgets and monsters.” She laughed. “Starlet.”

Cynthia was interested. “Oh? I thought you had to get a degree in engineering or chemistry or a related field. Or do they have a major for special effects at UCLA now? What year in high school are you?”

Josie ignored her again. “Maybe I could get a job building cars. I’m good with cars.”

“I’d noticed,” Cynthia said dryly.

“There are places here in Irvine that build custom sports cars for wealthy people,” Grandma said. “Maybe they have an apprentice program.”

“Really? Here? But it all looked like strip malls coming in.”

“You don’t see the wealthy from the highway,” the old woman explained. “They’re tucked away in places even more private than my house.”

“Wow.”

The two continued to talk as Cynthia attended to the small dish she’d taken for herself. It tasted good, but wasn’t truly satisfying. Where did the food go, anyway? If only there were someone she could talk to about the trivial, nagging questions. She glanced at the empty end of the table, which seated twelve. “Where’s Christophe? Is he already up to something at the University?”

Grandma’s brow wrinkled. “No, and I don’t know where he is. He’s been gone quite frequently since we arrived.”

“Who’s Christophe?”

“My brother.”

“Oh, the one you learned to fight with.”

Grandma lifted an eyebrow. “Fight with?”

“Never mind,” Cynthia said. “It was something we were talking about on the ride. What has the weather been like?”

“Ah, there’s a short subject. Hot, dry, hot, dry, rinse, repeat.”

Once the meal was finished, Eleanor presented Cynthia with a stack of envelopes. “I made a command decision and threw out the credit card come-ons and cell phone ads after your mail started to overflow the basket.”

“Good idea,” Cynthia said, standing over the trashcan to flip through the missives. “Junk, junk, junk… ah, here’s a letter from the chair of the Physics and Astronomy Department.”

The girl came closer, leaning over to look. “Astronomy Department? Are you going to school here?”

“No, Josie, I’m going to teach here. I’m officially an assistant professor at the University of California–Irvine.”

“Wow. But hey, wouldn’t the, um, hours be kinda bad for you?” Josie asked.

Grandma raised her eyebrows in question.

“Not for an astronomy professor,” Cynthia answered quickly. “Nighttime is the best time for us. Although I’m going to have to find an excuse to get out of this staff luncheon the department has scheduled.”

Cynthia didn’t see her brother until the following evening. Christophe’s hair was already getting sun bleached, making the red more noticeable against his pink face and arms. Cynthia wondered for a moment if her own hair would lighten, and then remembered that sunlight was something she never wanted to see again.

Smoke rising from Pen’s face, the searing light, the burning…

She slammed the door on that memory and forced her attention back on her brother. She gave him a hug. “It’s good to see you. Where have you been?”

“The beach.” At her puzzled look, he added, “Laguna Beach.”

“You look like you must be spending every day out there. It’s been nearly two weeks. I thought you’d at least have the house wired for wi-fi by now. Imagine my surprise when I couldn’t get my email last night. Shocking!”

“I’ll get right on it. I know how much you miss those penis enlargement ads.” He glanced past her shoulder, up the staircase. “Who’s this?”

Cynthia turned. Josie was standing on the landing, rubbing her wet black hair with a towel. She wore nothing else but an oversized Navy tee, but it nearly stretched to her knees. It was Dad’s, and had to have been swiped from Cynthia’s drawer.

“This is Josie. She was my companion on the road.”

“I didn’t realize you still needed a chaperone.” He mounted the stair and stretched out a hand. “Hello, I’m Christophe.”

Josie took the hand and gave it a firm shake. “Pleased to meetcha. You must be the brother.”

“So my mother claimed.”

“Are you an electrician? You wire things?”

“No, I’m a computer nerd. Although I am handy with a fuse box.”

“Don’t be so modest.” Cynthia tried not to watch as Josie resumed rubbing her hair, the shirt lifting to reveal athletic legs. “Christophe is more than a nerd, he’s my research partner. I do all the stargazing, he does the algorithms on the computer.”

“You’ll notice she agrees that I’m a nerd, though.”

“Well, the nerd needs to help me finish unloading the car after I make a phone call or two. I have a lot of delicate items I didn’t trust to the movers. And later, Josie–after you put on some pants–I’ll show you what the stars look like up close.”

She had just pulled the telescope out of the back when their houseguest appeared, wearing a drawstring set of Grandma’s pedal pushers under the tee.

“Nice outfit.”

“Your grandmother confiscated my clothes. She said they all had to go into the washer. Like I had lice or something.”

“She did that to us every time we came back from camping. It’s the bugs she doesn’t trust. Do you think you can carry this?” Cynthia stuck a box of notebooks into the girl’s arms.

“Sure. What are they for? I thought you said you were teaching here, not taking classes.”

“These are my summations and notes on our study. Christophe prefers to keep his writing on his laptop, but I need to see things on paper.”

“Okay. What sort of research do you do, exactly?”

Oh, dear. How would she put this into English? “Are you familiar with the Big Bang?”

Josie’s dark brow furrowed. “Sorta. They talked about it some in science until Terry’s mom made a big deal about it violating their religion.”

Cynthia quelled the instinctive rage flooding her brain. “True faith shouldn’t be threatened by knowledge. Okay, the Big Bang. When it happened, matter and anti-matter were created.”

“Like in Star Trek?”

“Close enough. An equal amount of matter and anti-matter would have been produced in what we call pair production. Matter and anti-matter cancel each other out, but if you look around, there’s all sorts of matter here.”

“Uh huh.”

“So maybe more matter got shoved one way and more anti-matter got shoved another way and they didn’t get to cancel each other. When galaxies collide, antimatter is released. Or, maybe, revealed.”

Josie looked puzzled. “So you’re looking for antimatter?”

Christophe, returning for another armful of boxes, laughed. “More like looking for evidence of it. Gamma rays and stuff like that.”

“Right. Maybe all the antimatter was canceled when the Big Bang happened... or maybe it wasn’t.”

Josie’s eyes drifted upward. “Colliding galaxies… you don’t mean ours, right? I haven’t heard anything about our galaxy getting hit.”

“No, the closest collision is very, very far away.”

“Okay.” She frowned. “If you find antimatter, what will you do then?”

“Then we publish a paper. We study it further and see if we can learn things about its nature.”

“Then comes the spaceship, right?”

“No, we publish another paper. And maybe get a Nobel Prize.”

The girl shrugged. “I’d rather have the spaceship.”

Cynthia was passing the kitchen with a box of books when the phone chirped. Grandma was bent over a bubbling pan, so Cynthia picked it up.

“Hello?” she answered, cheerfully.

A sour female voice immediately began talking. “Mrs. Chambers? This is Heather Bishop with the neighborhood association. I need to speak to you about your grandson.”

“Christophe?”

The woman on the other end hesitated. “Who is this?”

“This is Cynthia Leach. My grandmother, Professor Chambers, is in the kitchen. May I help you?”

“It’s important that I speak to her right away. Could you have her call me? It’s about that structure he’s setting up in your driveway.”

“Structure?”

“The tripod.”

The tripod? Wait a minute–“You mean the telescope?”

“All items placed in your driveway during the day must be stored in the house by dusk or nine in the evening, whichever is earlier. Lawn equipment, basketball hoops, toys. It’s after dark.”

“But a telescope wouldn’t be very useful during the day. By definition, it’s used when the stars are out, which is after dark.”

“It’s in the neighborhood covenant,” the sour voice continued. “You can set up smaller items in the loggia, but not the driveway.”

“But then the roof would get in the way of the view. That’s why he’s setting it up in the driveway.”

“It still breaks the terms of the neighborhood covenant. All Slippery Elm deeds specify that residents must adhere to the covenant. If she wants an exception, she’ll have to take it up at the next association meeting.”

“I’ll tell her.” The words were met with a click, and Cynthia set the phone back in its cradle.

When she walked into the kitchen, Grandma looked up from the pot. It smelled like chicken and dumplings. “Who was that, dear?”

“Is it illegal to set up a telescope in your own driveway?”

“Oh.” The older woman pursed her lips with distaste. “You spoke to Heather.”

“Who is this ‘Heather’?”

“The president of the Slippery Elm Homeowners’ Association, and the biggest busybody in the neighborhood. She must have called me four times a day the first week we were here, complaining about this and that not being in the deed restrictions or the Home Appearance Guidelines. Did you know that they even specify what color and weight your curtains can be?”

“Is that why I have sheers instead of the heavy drapes I asked for?”

“Yes indeedy. There’s a storage room in the garage that has no windows, but your mattress wouldn’t go through the door. I hope the Japanese partition and draperies around the bed are working as substitutes.”

“They are so far. When is the next association meeting?”

“I’m not sure. It should be in the last newsletter–if I haven’t thrown it out.”

“Where would it be?”

“Check the stack of papers near the phone. That’s mail that needs a once-over before tossing.”

Cynthia left the study, returning in a few minutes with a flyer in her hand. She sat and spread the newsletter out on the table. It was done on slick paper and looked fairly professional. “Does Heather do this?”

“She writes some of the articles,” Grandma responded. “I imagine someone else actually prints it.”

“It’s not bad. The department newsletter back home should have been this good. At least these people spelled my last name correctly. I still remember getting teased my first term as a teaching assistant. I didn’t realize how prophetic the term ‘leech’ would become.”

“Last name?” The old woman set down the ladle and fumbled for her bifocals. “New residents in Slippery Elm–Eleanor Chambers and her grandson, Christophe Leach. Welcome to our community.”

“Someone else wrote that last part, I’m sure. I can’t imagine the owner of that voice welcoming anyone.”

“She didn’t know what we’d be like, dear. Besides, Heather can be pleasant when she wants to be. That’s why she’s president of the Association.”

“President. Oh, goodie.” That reminded Cynthia of why she’d gotten the newsletter in the first place. “Here it is–the August meeting is at 7:30 PM on the eighteenth. Damn it, it’s already happened.”

“Don’t curse, dear. Maybe you could attend next month.”

“That doesn’t help me tonight.”

“Oh, pooh on her. What’s she going to do, call the police?”

As it turned out, Heather called Slippery Elm Security instead. The compact car with the yellow light pulled up the driveway just as Christophe had zoomed in on Mars for Josie’s benefit. A middle-aged man in a blue uniform stepped out and ambled the rest of the way up the drive. He seemed to be in no particular hurry.

“Night, folks.”

“Good evening,” Cynthia greeted. “May I help you?”

“We’ve received complaints that you have this thingamajig set up after dusk. Association rules say this sort of stuff has to be put away when the sun sets.”

“I see. And tell me, how are we supposed to see the stars during the daytime?’

He shrugged. “Don’t make sense to me, either. I just go where they tell me.”

“We’ve only been set up for a few minutes. Couldn’t you let us look for a little while?”

“Not for me to decide. They got a rule about toys being left in the driveway. It looks disorderly, I guess.”

“This is not a toy,” Cynthia felt the frost settle into her tone and felt guilty. It wasn’t this man’s fault that the rule was illogical. He was just doing what he was paid to do. “I am a professor–well, associate professor–of astronomy at UC Irvine.”

“No shit?”

“Not one bit. I have a letter from the Chair inside if you need to see it. But, I assure you, this is a tool of my profession.”

“Huh. Well, I tell you what. I’ll write that up in the paperwork and see if it’ll fly. If it doesn’t, they’ll probably just let you off with a warning. First offense and all. Sorry to bother you, folks.” He waved to the trio and returned to his car.

When the sun set on the third day after Cynthia’s arrival, Grandma asked her to come into her personal suite, located near the kitchen, for a private conversation. Her grandmother’s new study had a Southwestern flavor, Cynthia noticed. The walls were sand-colored and terra cotta pottery filled the nooks instead of the Cherokee carvings she’d collected in North Carolina. A brightly patterned rug hung above a ceramic fireplace. “This is different-looking.”

“This is a different house in a different part of the country.”

“It’s a nice break from the white walls downstairs. You’ve given it personality.”

“Thank you. Have a seat.”

The older woman indicated the pair of leather wingback chairs near the fireplace. The chairs were a reminder of the days when she and Grandpa Chambers had lived in Fayetteville, near the base. To Cynthia, Grandma’s study meant ‘home’, unlike the boarding schools she had grown up in.

“I’m glad you kept these.”

“I couldn’t part with them. It would be like leaving Joseph behind.”

Once they were both comfortable, the older woman got to the point of their meeting. “How long will Josie be staying here? House guests are risky, given your circumstances.”

“It’s worse than that. She knows I’m a vampire.”

“How did she figure that out?”

“How do you think?” Cynthia snapped.

“You didn’t.”

“I did.”

Grandma sighed. “You really should have more discretion, dear.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” Her words echoed and she lowered her voice. “Look, I didn’t plan what happened. But it’s done, and I need help figuring out what to do.”

“It seems to me that your options are limited. You could kill her, of course.”

“Grandma!”

“Calm down, dear, I’m just listing options. You could turn her loose in downtown L.A. and see how she fares.”

“I’m not sure L.A. would survive. Next?”

“You could turn her over to the police as a runaway. Of course, this would lead to them asking questions you might not care to answer. Then, there’s the final option. It would be the most difficult to choose.”

“If it’s not killing her, how difficult could it be?”

Grandma was already sitting in one of the wingback chairs in her study when Cynthia brought Josie into the room. She took the other seat, rubbing one hand along the well-worn arm, and indicated the nearby sofa. “Please sit down. We’ve been talking about you.”

Josie swallowed and lowered herself onto the cushions. She perched erect on the edge, waiting. Her hands gripped the edge of the seat.

“You’ve been with us for three days now,” Grandma began. “Have you made any plans for the future?”

The sofa fabric wrinkled further under one clinging hand. “I was thinking about that apprenticeship thing with the car place. Or maybe I could get a job at Mickey D’s.”

“It doesn’t sound like you want to head to Hollywood just yet, dear.”

“I’m… I’m a little young for that. I need to save up some money first. You know, it’s real expensive in L.A.”

“Very expensive. Yes, it is, and such a move requires planning. Where will you be living till you earn enough money to relocate?”

Josie glanced at Cynthia, desperation plastered across her face. Cynthia said nothing. “Um. I don’t know much about California yet. Maybe… maybe I could stay here? Just for a bit. I’d pay rent.”

“If you paid rent,” Grandma asked gently, “how would you save anything?”

“Oh. Maybe I could do some of the housework, too. Since you don’t have a maid. I’m good at vacuuming and stuff.”

The old woman chuckled at Josie’s dubious claim of domesticity. “We’ve been discussing it, and we would be willing to let you live here–under certain conditions.”

Josie’s brow wrinkled with suspicion. “Such as?”

“Well, dear, we need to know how old you are.”

“Why?”

“Because if you stay here, you’re going to go to school. I couldn’t possibly have a granddaughter that didn’t graduate from high school. I’d have to flog her parents.”

“Granddaughter?”

“I don’t think you’re going to pass as my own child, dear. And Cynthia is too young to have a teenage daughter.”

Josie looked stunned. “Granddaughter? You mean, like a relative?”

“As a relative. I don’t think that the deed restrictions here permit me to open a home for wayward girls from Oklahoma.”

“Texas. You mean Cynthia and I would be sisters?”

“Mmmm. Perhaps cousins would be a more appropriate relationship. I can’t imagine explaining to people why I have baby pictures of my other grandchildren, but none of you. You could be the grandchild of one of my siblings, sent here for the educational opportunities in California.”

“Maybe it was either here or military school,” Cynthia suggested with a wink.

The teen jabbed Cynthia with one elbow. “Don’t give her ideas.”

“So, how old are you?”

Josie lowered her head. “Sixteen. Going on seventeen, now.”

“Just like the song.” At Josie’s blank look, Grandma shrugged. “We’re raising Philistines these days. Do you think you could stay in school and out of trouble until you turn eighteen?”

The sudden grin was brilliant. “I’ll sure try!”

“Good enough. We’ll introduce you as my great-niece. What’s your last name?”

“Does it matter? Couldn’t it just be yours?”

“I suppose it doesn’t matter. Josie Chambers it is.”

The next few days passed in fast-forward. Grandma and Christophe took Josie through Irvine’s many malls in search of a new wardrobe, which delighted the teen. She was less thrilled with the aptitude tests Grandma brought home from one of the educational materials stores.

“We’re going to register you for the grade you ought to be in, not the one the school would send you to based on your age. You’re going to be a functional adult in society when you graduate.” Grandma’s no-nonsense tone brooked no argument.

“And you think I need to get held back a grade? Do you think I’m dumb or something?” The new haircut made the glare more visible. Josie’s mullet had been shorn and shaped into a more flattering mound of curls.

“I think it’s safe to say you have a smart mouth, at the very least. It’s been my experience, however, that school systems vary in quality. I’ve taught many a freshman unprepared for the rigors of college.”

“I’m not going to college.”

“Bite your tongue.”

“Ick! No! You said I only had to graduate high school.”

Grandma sighed. “You’re right, I did say that. And I so hoped to brag to the neighbors about another Ph.D. in the family.”

“How about trade school?”

“All honest work is noble. Don’t think for a moment that I won’t hold you to the highest standard in that, too.”

At some point during those speedy days, Grandma also listed Josie with the Neighborhood Association as another member of the household. She did this during the same trip she made to pay the fine for having the telescope in her driveway. The girl was photographed in her new clothes and issued a residency badge for the swimming pool and tennis courts.

“All I need now is a car,” she informed Cynthia that evening when Cynthia sat down in the living room to look through her mail.

Cynthia set an invitation that needed declining on the coffee table for future reference. Her hunger had returned, putting her in a lousy mood. “You’re not getting a car. You don’t even have a permit. If you had, you’d have shown it to me by now.”

“I still drive pretty good.”

“Pretty well.”

“Whatever. I just figured you wouldn’t want me driving your car again.”

“You’ve figured correctly. You’re not getting a new car out of me, though. You don’t need one, and I’m not Miss Moneybags.”

Josie turned to Grandma, who had been watching the discussion with amusement. “I’m your granddaughter now. How am I supposed to become a functional adult in society if I don’t learn to drive?”

“Functional adults take the bus every day.”

“Not from here they don’t. Even the servants get brought in by van. You’d have to drive me to the nearest bus stop.”

“We’ll think about it,” Grandma said. “In the meantime, I’ve been working on a home schooling schedule for you.”

“A what?”

“Home schooling. I’ve been looking over those tests, and I think we’re going to have to do some work with you before classes start in the fall.”

Josie’s eyes widened till white showed around the dark irises, like a frightened horse. “You’re going to make me do schoolwork when it’s still summer?”

The older woman’s voice grew firmer. “You’re going to have to, if you’re going to get that diploma.”

“Ugh!” Josie threw herself on the couch and buried her face in the cushions.

Grandma leaned over from the comfy chair and patted Josie’s head. “There are some advantages. Since school is going to be your only job for the nonce, I think it’s only fair to give you an allowance.”

The head lifted. “How much?”

“I haven’t decided yet. I haven’t given out an allowance for many years.”

“There’s been inflation, you know.”

Grandma chuckled. “Of course there’s been inflation. I think your first academic project should be to learn how much the cost of living has increased in the last–hmm–fifteen years and give me a percentage to work with. I imagine you could find the statistics online somewhere.”

The teen leaped up and ran for the study.

“Be sure to cite your sources!” Grandma shouted at the disappearing figure. “I’ll be double-checking them!”

Cynthia spent her late evenings driving around campus, exploring its roads during the very late hours, but she waited until the Friday before venturing into Reines Hall. She had to sign in, which was no surprise considering the hour. Apprehension gripped her spine, holding her to ramrod-straight posture as the elevator ascended. Could she really do this? Could she really get away with a faculty appointment without ever attending a daytime event? The grant had helped her get her boot in the door, but her inability to have normal office hours or attend meetings was going to be a handicap. Maybe she and Christophe could win a Nobel Prize and the department would look the other way. No, the professor they’d named the building after had won one, and he still had to do stuff in the daytime. Maybe she could claim that she had one of those disorders that made her skin hypersensitive to the sun. They’d probably hand her a bottle of SPF 45 and tell her to get over it.

The elevator made its final ding and opened to a quiet, darkened fourth floor. She stepped out and the doors slid shut behind her. Even though her soles were soft, she could still hear her footsteps on the smooth floor as she studied the doors of the Physics and Astronomy offices. What if there was someone else up here, and they called Security? No one had met her yet, and they were unlikely to till November or so, when Daylight Savings Time ended.

You’re being silly, Cynthia told herself. The staff had probably seen her picture when she sent them her resume and the address of her web page at Chapel Hill. Didn’t mean the cleaning staff had seen it, though. She had no university ID to show them–yet another complication of her new schedule. If Christophe had been home when she arose, she would have made him come with her. As her lab assistant, he had his ID. And a set of keys.

The door to the main Departmental office was closed and locked. Why should it be otherwise? Everyone would have gone home long ago. She pulled out her cell and tried Christophe’s number again, but his line went straight to voicemail.

This was infuriating! She thumped her fist against the door, and the thud resounded up and down the hall. If there were any of the cleaning staff present, she’d find out in a hurry. Either they’d come running or they’d call security.

They must have decided on Door Number One. She heard footsteps, heavy, probably male, coming down the corridor in her direction.

A man rounded the corner and stopped, looking her up and down. She did the same. He was middle-aged, dressed in short sleeves and khaki pants. Not cleaning staff. Not the department chair, either. She’d checked out his picture online at the department’s website. Cynthia had seen this fellow’s picture there, too, though. He was–

“Professor Gleason?” Relief relaxed her posture. “Hello, I’m Cynthia Leach.”

“Cynthia Leach?” He shook her outstretched hand, and then ran his fingers through the thinning ginger fuzz on his head. “Leach. Ah, yes! The new one!”

“That’s me–the new one.”

“You’re here awfully late.”

“I could say the same for you. Maybe it’s because this is the astronomy department?”

He laughed. “Point taken. Well, why don’t I open this up?” He dug in his pocket, came out with a keychain. A geode, dangling from a silver link, bounced against the door as he unlocked it.

She remembered that he was one of the geophysicists. “Amethyst points–nice,” she complimented.

“Thanks. You’re from North Carolina, so I guess you’re familiar with these. I picked this up in Asheville. There’re some nice shops there. I know it’s a tacky thing to do to a thunder egg, but I couldn’t resist.”

“Neither could I,” she said, pulling out her own keychain. “Mine isn’t as fancy, though–just plain quartz.”

“No quartz is plain.” Gleason opened the door and gestured her inside. “Let’s brighten things up a bit.” He flipped the light switches and the brilliance seared her eyes. Sometimes vampiric night vision could be a disadvantage. She blinked several times until the afterimages faded and located him in the center of the room. When he saw that he had her attention again, he waved an arm around him.

“This is Sonya’s desk. She’s our office manager, administrative officer, whatever the university calls them these days. That’s Mariah’s desk there, she works with Sonya. That over there,” he gestured towards a door, “is Anton Hargrave’s office. He’s the temporary chair. Down the hall thataway–” he shifted directions “–is Thelma’s office. She’s our financial person.”

“Temporary chair?”

“Fahy’s on sabbatical. He’s gone to NASA as a consultant, and we don’t know if he’s coming back or not.” He went to a cubbyhole, and she followed. “These are our mailboxes. Looks like they’ve labeled yours already–and it’s full.”

She pulled out a sheaf of memos, forms, campus mail envelopes, and the inevitable academic junk mail. “Langston?”

“Gone to MIT. That used to be his box, though. Pitch it unless it looks important. Oh, there’s the schedule for faculty meetings. Anton’s set up a bunch of them–wants to look like he’s doing something until the fall session starts.”

Cynthia began separating the papers, then realized that he was still watching her. She couldn’t help but notice how well-defined his jugular was. “Pardon me, I’m being rude. Thank you so much, Professor Gleason.”

“Eric.”

“Eric. Tell me, is there any way I could get Sonya, or whoever is responsible for the office keys, to leave me a copy in my box?”

“I don’t think she’d do that. She’d get you a key, of course, but she doesn’t like to leave things out where strangers could find them.”

“Of course.” Damn. “Do you think she’d let you have them, Eric? Do you usually work this late?”

“Sometimes. It’s pretty busy around here in the daytime, people calling and such, and I need to be able to think.”

“I know this is an imposition, but perhaps you could take the keys and I could stop by and pick them up. I keep very odd hours.”

“I could do that for you. It’ll have to be Tuesday, though. I’m taking Monday off because I’m working tomorrow. Observatory night.”

“Observatory night?”

“We do an outreach with the community. Invite them to the observatory, let them see the stars, learn the constellations. Showing astronomers doing their actual work, compiling calculations and sitting at the computer plotting movements, is hardly as interesting. It would dampen the romance of the heavens.”

“Oh, I read about that online. It sounds like fun.”

“You’re young and idealistic, and obviously more gregarious than I am. I keep thinking of it as time taken away from my projects.”

“What time does it start? I might drop in.”

He brightened. “People will start coming around eight for setup and discussion. It’ll probably run fairly late, since we’re still on daylight savings time. Will that be a problem for you?”

“It’d be no trouble at all.”

When Cynthia arose the next evening, she stormed into her brother’s room to give him a little what-for. She found him buttoning up a pale short-sleeved shirt. She caught a glimpse of a hickey on his throat before he jerked the shirt together.

“Hey! Aren’t you supposed to knock?”

“Where have you been? I haven’t seen you in the last two days.”

He frowned. “I’ve been at the beach.”

“Well, I went over to the Astronomy office last night and didn’t have any keys. Someone else had to let me into the office.”

Christophe looked embarrassed, much to her satisfaction. “I’m sorry. If I’d known, I would have left you my set.”

“If you’d been home, you would have known. If you hadn’t forwarded your cell to voice mail, you would have known.”

“Oh? If you had left a message on my voicemail, I would have known.”

Score one for the younger sibling. “What were you doing that you needed to forward your phone?” At his raised eyebrow, she added, “I withdraw the question. What if Grandma had a heart attack?”

“Then you should call an ambulance first, not me.”

“I don’t have time for this. They’re having Observatory Night on campus. Do you want to go with me?”

“On Saturday night?”

“Well, live it up, Mr. Life-of-the-Party, because you’re going to be back doing your actual job soon. We have computer time and lab hours coming up.” She whirled and did her best to flounce out of the room with neither skirt nor lace.

“Then I’ll be there for that!” her brother shouted. “In the meantime, I have a life!”

She stuck her head back into his room. “Don’t rub it in!”

Her anger was short-lived. By the time she entered the campus, she was thinking about the students she would meet and the new academic arena she was moving into. Tonight, her life returned to normalcy. It was almost enough to override the hunger. Cynthia jacked Holst into the CD player and forwarded it to “Jupiter, the Bringer of Jollity”. She was still humming when she parked the car in the employee lot closest to the Student Center. It was only a short hike to the bus stop. She walked slowly, studying the sky. It was a clear night and the Teapot–Sagittarius–was already visible low to the south. If the light pollution wasn’t too bad, the students should be able to spot a lot of bodies this evening.

A pair of male students sat on a bench at the stop, notebooks open in their laps. They didn’t seem to notice her arrival, but continued comparing their answers to a calculus problem. After hearing them grouse for three minutes about it, Cynthia walked over and glanced at their sheets, upside down. Integration by parts, she should have known.

“Look here.” She tapped into the lap of the louder of the two. “You’ll never solve it if you divide the integrand up that way. You need to switch what you have for u and dv. You should be able to proceed from there. Oh, and don’t forget the plus C. They count off if you forget that.”

The student glared up at her and opened his mouth, but was interrupted when the shuttle to the observatory arrived. The vehicle was empty except for the three of them and the driver, but she didn’t know yet whether that was normal or not.

The ride was made in sulky silence, and Cynthia tried saying something more neutral. “It’s a nice evening. Should be a good night for seeing stars.” Her answer was a grunt from the two young men, and she shrugged.

They turned onto the newest part of California Avenue and the squat structure of the observatory loomed ahead. Unlike Morehead, this one was freestanding and surrounded by a fence. There was already a large line formed at the open gate, and a crowd in the field surrounding the building. Several telescopes had been set up and small groups of people were clustered around each.

She disembarked, looking around till she spotted a head with red fuzz poking up above shorter people. She headed that way, followed by her companions from the bus.

Eric pointed to the sky. “Look up–straight up. That’s the Summer Triangle. There’s Deneb, Altair, and the brightest one is Vega.” The high school students flanking him tilted their heads back. Eric lowered his gaze, saw Cynthia, and grinned. “Ah, there you are. Folks,” he said to the people clustered around the observatory, “this is Cynthia Leach, our newest professor.”

The group, mostly Asian, turned to her and murmured their hellos. The calculus students looked discomfited.

Cynthia smiled and began to mingle.

She awoke filled with bubbling energy the next evening. As soon as she’d dressed, she waylaid Christophe in the computer room and began giving him the details. “They have an impressive outreach program at the observatory. The public is invited in about every other month, and the undergrads in the Astronomy Club meet there regularly. The department is dedicated to generating interest in the subject.”

“Glad to see you had fun. At least your mood’s changed. Did you learn anything about the sort of computer interfaces they use?”

“Most of them are hand-controlled, but the big gun can also be controlled via a LINUX-based control program. Home-grown. You should have gone with me.”

“I’m almost sorry I missed it. It does sound interesting.” He tapped the screen. “As you can see, I’ve been setting up fresh tables for the next group of data. I’m holding off on some of the parameters till we start using the scopes for real and see how they perform.”

He was working on the project. How sweet, he was trying to make it up to her. “You still have time to have a little fun before we buckle down. We have about a week before we get access to the goods.”

“I’ll have to pull up my calendar and see what orgies I have scheduled. In other news, Grandma wants to talk to you.”

She found her grandmother in the study when she went downstairs. “Christophe says you needed me...?”

“Yes, I need your assistance.” Grandma spread her hands out over a sheaf of bulletins on the table. “Josie and I have been looking at the different schools in the area. I think she might do better in the public schools. The students in private school would probably try their best to learn her socioeconomic background and any important people she knows or is related to. I don’t think that’s what we want, and it wouldn’t be good for her anyway. The cultural shift is going to be hard enough as it is.”

“Can you get her into public school? It’s not as if we have a birth certificate, or a legal guardianship form signed by her parents.”

Grandma sighed. “Cynthia, there are times when one has to work around such things. I don’t know if you are aware of this, but I am fairly good at forging documents when I have to. Where do you think that surrogate guardian form came from when Nancy Klessner fell off my roof?”

“You faked that? I thought the Klessners had planned ahead.”

“If they had, they would have warned their daughter not to go stargazing with you. I would have told them you were part monkey. Besides, we have Christophe to help now. I’m sure his computer wizardry will make them look more official.”

“We could get in a lot of trouble over this.”

“We could get in a lot of trouble if we don’t send her to school. I prefer that she get an education. Speaking of which, I’d like you to talk her into going to this school.” She tapped one of the catalogs. “All she cares about is whether a institution offers shop, but I think this one would provide her with the widest range of opportunities. She’s not as well-educated as I’d like, but she’s very bright. Think of the questions she asked you about your project. She learns quickly.”

“Wouldn’t you be better at that than me? She doesn’t respect me the same way. I don’t have your gravitas.”

“You have plenty of gravitas, dear, it’s genetic. You’re closer to her age, though, and she admires you.”

“Admires me?”

“Well, you did rescue her and take her away from her presumably humdrum existence in Oklahoma.”

“Arkansas.”

“Texas, Louisiana, Mississippi, whatever.”

“I’ll see what I can do. But I hope it offers shop.”

The following evening, the four inhabitants of 2201 Forest Trail came together in Grandma’s study for their first official household meeting. Grandma and Christophe sat in the leather chairs, while Josie sat on one of the ottomans. The girl’s face and shoulders were faintly sunburned; Cynthia’s brother had taken her to the beach that afternoon.

Cynthia handed each of them a sheet of paper, then took one of the chairs at the desk. “This is an outline of our schedule from now until I begin teaching in September. I say ‘ours’ because we’re all going to have to coordinate to get everything to work.”

“To ‘work’? What do you mean, ‘work’?”

“To get you ready for school, and our research project relaunched.”

Christophe blinked when he studied the sheet. “Staff meetings? Since when do I have to show up for those?”

“Since I can’t go to them any more. One of us should attend. You’ll notice that I’ve tried to reserve nights for us at the observatory that don’t come before morning meetings. There may be some other times you’ll have to be there, especially as the fall quarter gets closer.”

“Oh, joy.”

“You’ll see that I’ve also blocked out times for each of us to instruct Josie.” She turned to their new ‘cousin’, who was studying the sheet closely. “Grandma and I have been working on this part together. She’s going to handle English and history during the day, and I’ll be teaching Josie science and math during those evenings I’m not working on campus. Christophe will be showing her how to use a computer, something he used to love doing at the Help Desk.” Her brother bit his thumb at her, which she ignored. “Oddly enough, the school year doesn’t start in Orange County until after Labor Day. I guess they don’t have to worry about snow days here.”

Josie looked horrified. “When am I supposed to have any time off? Math on Saturdays and Sundays? Separate homework hours?”

“I don’t have office hours on the weekend. It’s the optimum time. You have a couple of evenings off during the week, see?”

“This is the summer! Shouldn’t I just have a reading list like other kids?”

Grandma arched an eyebrow. “Don’t feel left out. I have one of those ready for you, too.”

Josie parked her head on her knees. “Ohhh boy.”

“School is your job, remember?” Grandma reminded her. “Jobs don’t end during the summer. In your case, you’re in dire need of training before you even start your job.” She patted the girl’s back. “Don’t worry, you’re getting some recess time during the day, too.”

“Ouch!” The teen sat up again. “People get entire days off from their job. These are… sweatshop hours!”

“You’re overdramatizing again. And you need aloe on that burn. Sweatshops don’t have grandmas that provide health care.”

Cynthia laughed and rose from her chair. “When you’re through getting slathered, Josie, come back in here and we’ll get started on that math. I’ll go easy on you tonight; I have other things to do later.”

Cynthia scowled as she marked another bar off the page in the phonebook and checked the index of the Thomas Guide that Grandma had given her. Boxes rattled in the back of the car; she’d packed her office junk early so Eric wouldn’t be kept waiting any later tomorrow than necessary. It was going to be very late anyway; those pesky non-vampires insisted on saving daylight.

So far, she’d had no luck finding the sort of crowd that was good for hunting blood. Penelope had never had problems luring men–or women–to her side for a quick bite, but she was the seductive type. Cynthia knew she was about as seductive as ice down the shorts.

Besides, there was something fundamentally wrong about the idea of seducing someone just to get her blood. It was just as bad as pretending to love someone in order to get sex. Pen hadn’t seen it that way, but Cynthia had felt guilty every time Pen had returned from a seduction, drawing Cynthia to her own throat so Cynthia could share the blood.

“When we’re in our new home, we’ll find our hunting grounds together. I’ll teach you,” her dark-haired love had promised, but now Penelope was gone forever.

Sorrow welled up inside Cynthia, enough to choke her and make her eyes sting; she forced the memories away. She only wept blood, and she didn’t have any to spare.

Ethics told her that she shouldn’t seduce for food; logic told her that people wouldn’t willingly give her blood without a good reason. In the absence of a Bloodmobile, mugging struck her as the most viable option.

Even when she was starving, Cynthia had been far stronger than Josie. She assuaged her guilt over that incident by telling herself that this time she would be in control. This time, she wouldn’t nearly kill somebody. She would sneak up behind the person, overpower them, and take what she needed. Afterwards, she would just take the man’s wallet–she couldn’t bring herself to attack a woman this way–and leave it nearby, where it could easily be found. She might even be able to turn it in someplace where it would find its way back to its owner.

Now for victimology. She needed someone drunk enough not to remember details and the privacy of a crowded room where no one would miss one person slipping out after another. Instead, she’d found a few pubs with men watching sports on television, some with girlfriends or wives. Most were neighborhood establishments, where a stranger would be remembered. It didn’t help that it was Monday night.

She was going to have to move closer to campus. She’d wanted to avoid the area, since anyone she met would be a potential student, but the gnawing pain in her belly could not be ignored any longer. The choice was between feeding from someone she might meet in class or going home and feeding off a family member.

By the time she reached the campus area, the clock in her dash said it was Tuesday morning. Her hands tightened on the steering wheel; what time did the bars close in Irvine?

Maybe she could get a hotel room, stay away from home till she found someone. Maybe she’d jump the desk clerk. Didn’t they have cameras? There it was. Yes, the lights were still on. She parked the Range Rover one block over and headed for the bar, trying not to run.

Luck was with her. A lone figure emerged through the glass door, waving to grunted goodbyes. She stepped back into the shadow the bar’s awning provided from the streetlight and watched the man walk unsteadily down the sidewalk, nearly clipping a concrete planter with his right shoe.

Cynthia crossed the street and followed her prey away from the bar, away from witnesses. It certainly wasn’t away from the light; the fair city of Irvine kept its streets and parking lots well lit. Would she have enough privacy to do what she had to?

His car was closer to the bar than she’d thought; it was summer and it wasn’t a big drinking night. Drunk, he seemed to be having trouble getting his keys out of his pocket. She had run out of time. Cynthia crouched and sprung.

They slammed into the side of the car and fell to the ground. A high-pitched screech blasted into her skull and she screamed, clutching her ears. Car alarm!

There were only seconds before someone would come. Desperate, she shoved him facedown into the pavement, straddling him. When he bucked, she locked her knees on his ribcage and yanked his collar away from his neck. Pleasure flooded her as her teeth sank into his shoulder and the blood began to come. He groaned under her and became still.

“Hey!” There was movement in her peripheral vision. She disengaged from her meal to glimpse two pairs of legs through her hair, which had come loose during the struggle.

Cynthia quickly jerked her victim’s shirt back up and licked her lips, checking for blood. She hoped her hair had concealed her actions.

Peering up, she saw that the legs were attached to two young men. The one with the beer in his hand said, “Whoa! Is he all right?”

“I think so.” Why couldn’t they have come a few moments later? She’d only had a brief taste, not enough to quell the hunger raging inside her, brought so close to satisfaction only to be denied. When she rose, she felt a familiar lightheadedness. Her prey must have been very drunk, or she must have been lower on blood than she thought. “I was just checking to see if he was still breathing.”

The beer bearer nodded. “Hey, it’s Paul. Is he hurt?”

“No.” As long as no one checked for fang around the collar. “I saw someone running away. Maybe it was a thief. The car alarm must have scared him off.”

The non-drinker laughed. “That’s a switch. He usually triggers it himself at least once a week. The last time it went on for this long, he’d passed out next to the door. We thought we were going to wake him up again.”

Underneath her, Paul stirred. “Get off me!”

“Oops.” She dismounted and helped him to his feet. “Are you okay?”

“I’m sick,” he said, and headed for the bushes.

It was irresponsible for her to leave, but she knew that if she stayed she would be obligated to suggest calling the police. That wouldn’t be good.

“I really need to get on home. I have a busy night tomorrow.”

“Night?”

She slapped her forehead. “Day, of course. I have a busy day. Will he be okay with you?”

“Yeah, sure,” Beer Drinker said. “After we make him clean up his puke.”

Cynthia felt cruel and wicked and guilty as she slid through the darkness back to her own vehicle. He’ll hardly miss the blood later, she told herself. He’ll be glad he still has his wallet. Besides, he was pretty drunk. You probably performed a public service by keeping him from driving tonight.

When she awoke the following evening, Cynthia was surprised to discover that she had no headache. Maybe she was immune to hangovers, now that she was dead. The pain in her stomach had subsided to a dull ache, which was a relief.

Tuesday night. Eric should have her keys. After a brief shower, she jumped into the Rover and headed for campus. When the elevator opened at the fourth floor, she found Eric in the main office waiting with her keys. “Let me carry that for you.” He indicated the boxes in her arms.

She couldn’t refuse his attempt at gallantry. “Merci, monsieur.” He made a good show of not grunting when Cynthia plopped her burden into his arms.

He staggered as they traveled down the hall and she realized, for the first time, how heavy the load must be. She’d never tried carrying so many books before she became a vampire, but it had been an easy job tonight. What if he suffered a hernia? Quickly, she removed the top box. “Let me take back some of those. I loaded the elevator before I came up.”

“Yes, thank you.”

When they arrived at her office, she flipped through the keys until she found the one for the door. A flip of the light switch, and her new space was revealed. It was newer than the room she’d shared in North Carolina, but also more impersonal. She’d soon fix that.

“Set that on the desk.” Eric parked the box and lingered, obviously curious. She decided to put him to use. “How are you at hanging up diplomas?”

“I’ve had some experience.”

Cynthia pulled them out of the box with a flourish. “Try to make them as straight as possible. My brother swears I’m the next best thing to a level.”

“Yes, ma’am.” As he turned to his task, she set the photograph of her parents on one end of the shelf beside her monitor and, beside it, the picture of her and Christophe with Grandma and Grandpa Chambers.

“Ohio State,” he murmured. “Good engineering school.”

“Yes.” Between the photos, she set up the sextant, the old-fashioned brass telescope, and, in the center, the agate carving.

“I see the Chapel Hill students voted you the Best Science Professor last year.” He studied the plaque “Their loss is our gain. Congratulations.”

“Thanks.” She unrolled her map of the heavens and scanned the still-bare section of the walls for a suitable spot. “Can you come hold the other end of this while I get it tacked up?”

“Oh, sure.”

Afterwards, Cynthia went back to the car to get her books. He insisted on accompanying her. They walked in silence to the vehicle.

On the way back, he cleared his throat. “Your parents are both in the Navy?”

“Father still is. My mother was, too, but she died in Iraq… a crash,” she added, uncomfortable with the subject.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Bush One or Two?”

“One.”

“And those are your grandparents in the other picture?”

“Yes. My grandfather passed away a few years ago.”

They fell into an awkward silence. Eric puffed under his load, not speaking again until they were back in the office and shelving the books. “Cynthia, I hope I’m not being too nosy, asking about your family photos.”

She smiled. “I wouldn’t have put them up if I didn’t expect a question every now and then. How about you? Any family?”

“My parents live in Michigan. I have an ex in Glendale, but no kids. Say, I like your carving. A crane, right?”

“Yes, for Grus, but also as the symbol for the official astronomers in ancient Egypt.”

“I like that. Very classy.”

“Thank you.”

The gates were closed at the entrance to Slippery Elm by the time she was ready to go home. She put the Rover in park and hunted in the glove box for her new remote. This ‘gated community’ business took some getting used to–and getting into. The late night man, a fellow named McCann, stepped out of his hut and studied her car, and then nodded in recognition.

“Late again.”

“I’m afraid you can expect to see more of me during these hours. It’s an occupational hazard.”

“Yeah, the astronomer. I remember. Try not to slam your doors too loud. Mrs. Bishop said to tell you that you woke her last night.”

Cynthia’s fingers, wrapped around the remote, clenched and the plastic cracked. Oops. She dropped it into the seat. “I’ll try to be as quiet as I can. Surely we’re not that close to her house.”

Riggs pushed a button on his belt, and the gate opened. “Mrs. Bishop notices a lot of stuff. She has really good ears… and eyes, if you get my drift.”

“Then she should get earplugs and thicker drapes,” Cynthia retorted. She sighed. There was no point in getting angry with him. He was trying to help. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you… thanks for the warning, though.” She hit the gas and sped through the opening.

Buford’s uncle bent over the cooling unit near the door in the cheap hotel room they’d rented when they arrived in Irvine. “This thing isn’t worth the space it’s taking up. It’s blowing tepid air. Not cold, not hot, tepid.” He thumped its side.

Buford looked up from the phone book and the map of the city they’d bought at a gas station. “Maybe it needs time to warm up, or cool down, or whatever it is they do.”

“Don’t try to theorize, Bu. It ill becomes you. Any idea where she is yet?”

“No, but I’ve found a lot of golf courses, and malls in the phonebook. I’ve never seen so many pages just listing malls in my life. Lemme count. One, two–”

“We won’t find our prey in a mall, you clown. They’ll be fixing to close around the time she wakes up. Summer is barely over. The sun’s still up late.”

The heat was making Uncle Wilbur extra cranky. “Maybe the malls close later in California. California’s different,” he stated.

“You’re dealing with commerce when it comes to a mall. Commerce likes things regular. Uniform times when they operate.”

“Well, if she’s not gonna be up before the malls close, maybe we could visit a couple. I could pick up some Hummel figures for my ma.”

“Your ma don’t need no more figures. Her house is filled with the blasted things. You can’t turn around in there without her screeching for you to look out for something. Your dad probably run off like he did because of them. They’re false idols, and you shouldn’t be buying them.”

Buford lowered his head, stung. Insulting his ma was pretty mean of Uncle Wilbur. “They’re not idols. A nun made ‘em. They’re angels and animals and little kids playing–”

“The way she treats them, they’re objects of worship. Did you ever notice that she only has one Bible, and it’s used as a platform for them?”

“Those are for the angels, Uncle Wilbur. Angels are religious.”

“Growing up around those things has warped your mind. I’d send you back to your ma and her holy Weebles in Yancey County in a heartbeat if you hadn’t been lucky enough to get bit by the unnatural creature we’re chasing.”

Buford stared at him, confused.

“When I first began vampire-hunting, I laid my hands on every book I could find on those bloodsuckers. Not those tarty new books that focus on their perverted sex lives, but on the older books, written by men closer to the era when some true belief existed. Belief in vampires, belief in evil, belief in God, Buford. In those older, more respectable pages, I learned that vampires formed a bond with their victims. That makes you a walking GPS device.”

Uncle Wilbur stopped beating on the machine and walked over to the bed. “Let me see that map.” He held it near the light and squinted. “I swear, they make the print on these things smaller and fuzzier every year. There it is, the University. That’s where she’s going to look for a job.”

“Do vampires need jobs?”

“No! No, of course not. But this vampire kept teaching till the semester was over, even though she’d already sent her family–her protectors–away. She’s going to teach again.”

“Why would she want to teach, if she doesn’t need a job?”

“Because she wants lots of young people to feed off of, that’s why! You’re fortunate you aren’t college material, Bu.”

Buford scowled. His uncle’s words sounded like he was talking about something good, but he was sure there was an insult in there somewhere. “She bit me, though.”

“Only because we had her rassled down next to the other one.”

Merrimon’s words were prophetic. That night, Cynthia headed to campus. The hunger had grown unbearable, and the University seemed to be the best place to find people out at night. She parked in her usual spot, but walked past the science buildings to enter Aldrich Park, the center of the campus. It was prudent not to hunt so close to where she worked.

The waning moon cast heavy shadows under the trees. They closed around her, surrounding her with warm darkness and the scent of flowers. The sound of small creatures scattering echoed her footsteps. The leaves parted occasionally, lighting the pale concrete strip under her feet. During one of those moments, she spotted a cyclist traveling down one of the other paths.

Her students–or at least her prospective students–would be using the science library, so she’d decided to try Langson, the library with the humanities and the Asian collections. The lobby was large and empty, save for one staff member sorting books. She spent some time in that area, studying the map of the floors. The lone employee seemed happy to ignore her as long as she wasn’t asking questions.

The end of the summer session was approaching and papers were coming due. Somewhere, probably tucked away in one of the more obscure book sections, had to be a set of the carrels grad students were so fond of. Most of the late-night students would be in the computer labs, but Cynthia hoped there was at least one liberal arts student up in the carrels working on a paper.

Ah, there the sections were. She memorized the locations and headed for the elevator. The back stairs would be better, but access to them was sometimes dicey after a certain hour.

When the elevator whisked open, she stepped out into deep quiet. The shelves were deserted and she feared that the carrels might already be empty for the evening. It was already after nine-thirty. Cynthia listened carefully, senses expanding into the quiet, and she heard breathing. The soft, regular breathing of one person.

Carefully, she crept up on the source of the breathing and discovered a young woman slumped asleep in her chair. A volume of Adrienne Rich poems lay face-down across her stomach. The screen of her laptop, open on the desk, was black, which implied she’d been asleep for a while. Cynthia couldn’t believe her luck.

She stood still for a moment, only her head and eyes moving as she studied the other carrels, the shelves, the corridors for sight or sound of others. The young woman before her continued to sleep, oblivious to the world.

No other noises near, no other people around. In one fluid move, Cynthia bent over the sleeper, swiftly sweeping long brown hair aside and sinking her teeth into flesh. The young woman jerked for a moment, but quickly calmed in Cynthia’s strong grip. A half-moan, half-whimper vibrated her throat, followed by a sigh. She collapsed against Cynthia. The book of poetry fell to the floor.

Cynthia fed slowly, listening to the soft breath, feeling the warmth of the body resting in her arms. Hot fluid flowed into her mouth, spreading pleasure all the way down the core of her body and out into the limbs. The joy of life filled her body, strengthening and reassuring her. The pangs within her eased, then faded away. It was time to stop, but she couldn’t help taking one more sip. Then one more, and one more...

The rhythm of the soft breathing became uneven and Cynthia knew she was taking too much blood. It was so delicious; she wanted more. A long time had passed since her last feeding; she needed it. The pulse at the girl’s wrist quickened under Cynthia’s sensitive fingertips, becoming fainter, unsteady, harder to detect. They had passed the threshold from donation into injury, and Cynthia fought with herself, her desire for more blood. Finally, through great exertion of will, she pulled herself away from her victim’s throat.

First Josie, now this young woman. She was losing control. Don’t lose control! She shakily repositioned her victim in the chair, pulling the shirt collar up over the bite mark and replacing the hair. The punctures would heal quickly, for reasons unknown, and they didn’t seem to cause pain. If her luck held, the student wouldn’t notice the wound until it was unrecognizable as a human bite. The aftereffects of the bite, however… Mercifully, the woman remained unconscious, probably in a faint.

Guilt blended with the ache of self-betrayal as she slunk away from the library. Sneaking up on people to steal their blood was bad enough, but losing control of the feeding was worse. What if she hadn’t stopped and the young woman had died? And a student to boot! What if she appeared in one of Cynthia’s classes? Unlikely, based on the sort of classwork she’d been pursuing, but everyone had to take science at some point. Forget the serious breach of faculty ethics: how could she look this student in the face and not show her shame?

The greater her hunger, the fewer compunctions she seemed to have. She would have to be careful of that in the future–be careful not to get too hungry.

The two men tooled around the campus hub again. Buford was beginning to get dizzy. He was driving while his uncle studied their new Thomas Guide with a Coleman lantern, making comments about access and ambush locations. “That area by the observatory seems to be fairly deserted this time of night. It’d be a good place to jump her.”

“What good will it do us to jump her again? She’s stronger than we are. And she might have students with her.”

“Still worried about that little girl?” Uncle Wilbur said snidely. “We need to find someone who can help us, someone from this area. Someone streetwise. A person who can get us some real weapons. We need firepower.”

“We could put an ad in the paper,” Buford suggested.

“Idiot!” Uncle Wilbur whapped him across the top of the head. The Nova veered towards the sidewalk, and students scattered. He straightened the wheel quickly. “Now see what you made me do! You don’t advertise for that sort of thing, you dolt. Besides, we don’t have time. She knows she’s being followed. She might move again.”

“How will we find someone, then? We don’t know nobody here.”

“The brotherhood of Jesus, Bu. We’re gonna find us an inner-city church and tell ‘em we need a young man to help a minister around town. With any luck, we’ll get a reformed gang member desirous of making good in the Lord’s eyes.”

“I don’t understand the point of this. Who decided to add letters to equations? That’s not math.”

“Yes, it is,” Cynthia chided. “Sometimes you don’t know what the value of something is immediately and have to plug that information in later. Think of sales tax, where the amount you pay depends on how much the item costs. In a case like that, we use a letter to represent the unknown quantity.”

Josie glared at the page. “This doesn’t look like sales tax to me.”

“The same principle is used in a lot of other ways. Compound interest, for example.” Looking at the teen’s face, she saw that the phrase had absolutely no significance to her. “Compound interest is–”

“I’m home!” Christophe announced as he sauntered through the front door.

“You’re back early today,” Cynthia said, surprised. “I’ve only been up for an hour. Did you do any work on the program?” Josie, sitting next to her on the couch, looked relieved for the break.

“I knocked off early so I could get a present for my new cousin,” Christophe said. “We have a lifetime of gifts to catch up with, you know.”

“A present?” Josie set her books aside and stood. “Where is it? I don’t see a box.”

“It’s a little big for a box. You’ll have to go outside to see it.”

Josie rushed out the front door and they heard her squeal. Cynthia and Grandma followed Christophe outside, where they discovered an enormous, ancient car blocking the driveway.

“Wow,” Cynthia whistled. “That’s… an interesting vehicle.” And ugly, she thought. It was a two-tone coupe of dingy mustard yellow and dirty white, colors divided with a thin line of rust. Tailfins jutted up around a dented trunk.

“It’s a classic,” defended her brother.

“If you say so. What is it?”

“It’s a DeSoto. Where did you find a car like that?” Grandma asked. “I haven’t seen one of those since I was a little girl. My father bought one just before they stopped making them.”

“Laguna Woods. Dylan knew a fellow going into the nursing home, and his family didn’t have a place for it.” He waved to a car lingering in front of their house, and the passenger waved back. Then, it pulled out of the cul-de-sac.

“Nursing home!” Grandma shuddered at the thought. “I hope you gave them a good price.”

“Of course I did. And the old guy was happy when I told him that we had a teenager at home who was interested in cars. He thought the name was José, though. I didn’t correct him.”

“Look! It’s an eight-cylinder!” came from the other side of the upraised hood. “I bet this baby will have some pickup!”

“I bet it’ll suck gas like flowers suck water,” Grandma said. “I remember Dad’s car.”

Cynthia nudged her brother. “Dylan? Who’s that? Did he give you the hickey?”

“Later,” Christophe said. “Let me bask in appreciation for a few minutes.”

Cynthia gave him thirty seconds. “Josie! You still have algebra to work on. Compound interest.”

“Compound this!” A greasy and extended middle finger popped above the edge of the metal. “I’ll schedule it right after my next dental appointment!”

“That reminds me,” Grandma said. “Before school starts, we probably should–”

“Don’t go there!”

As it turned out, it was much easier to get Josie into school than anyone thought it would be. A large portion of the process was online. Perhaps it was due to the number of immigrants, but the locals also didn’t seem to be as interested in documentation as Cynthia had believed they would be. The catalog for the school was thick and detailed, well over a hundred pages. Cynthia, Josie, and Grandma puzzled over separate copies.

“I don’t understand this ‘track’ business,” Josie said. “What am I supposed to choose?”

“That depends on your educational level and where you plan to go after you graduate.” Cynthia found the catalog very forward-thinking. It listed different options for student futures, everything from community college to the military to Ivy-league universities, and described the types of education a student needed to get admission to each institution. “If you’re going to the average college, they’re suggesting you take this track. If you’re aiming for Harvard, this track would be more likely to get you there.”

“I’m not going to Harvard. The one for the military has shop, and this one does, too. This one looks the easiest to pass.”

“Nonsense! It’s a matter of what you’re qualified for,” Grandma snapped. “You should go into the highest level of classes possible. We need to schedule a visit with one of the counselors. It’s the only way you can get into any of the honors classes.”

Josie was outraged. “Honors classes? You said ‘graduate high school’. You didn’t say I had to take honors classes or go to Harvard or any of that stuff.”

“Young lady,” Grandma said firmly, “you are not as stupid or ill-educated as you like to portray yourself to be. I’ve been around you long enough to know better.”

“Do they have honors shop?”

“If they do, sign up. But I think it’s time you admit to yourself that you could handle some serious science classes. You could limit yourself to simple car repair, but I think you might like designing them as well.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Or create movie explosions or learn how to do those computer-generated special effects. That’s what all the film companies are going to these days.”

“Wow.”

Cynthia was incredulous. “Grandma, are you serious? Engineering? She can’t get through the prerequisite classes before college. She’d have to go extra years.”

“She can do it if she enrolls as a sophomore.”

Josie dropped her catalog. “Sophomore? You’re talking about holding me back again!”

“Dear,” Grandma said with emphasis, laying her hand on Josie’s fist. “I’m talking about getting you the education you need to have the best future possible.”

“You mean keep me in high school an extra year!”

“I want you to go into college–or even into the pit crew at the Indy 500–ahead of the game, not lagging behind the other students. The children here come from very well-to-do families and many of them have even been tutored to make them more competitive.”

Josie crossed her tanned, muscular arms. “I don’t have to stay here, you know.”

“No, you don’t. We know you’ll be turning eighteen before you graduate. If it’s your will to leave us then, you can. But you are also welcome to stay and finish school. I take being your grandmother very seriously.”

Cynthia was amazed to see tears forming in the teen’s eyes. “Okay,” she snuffled. “Okay, I’ll try it. But if it sucks I want to take the GED test and get out.”

“When you turn eighteen,” Grandma conceded.

“Yeah. Hey, I’ll be bigger than the other kids. I could get on a team.”

Later that night, when the rest of the family had gone to bed, Cynthia and Christophe bundled up their laptops and headed to campus. The streets were deserted, even around the campus bars. It would probably be more active when the fall quarter began, but even then most people would be in bed. Cynthia told herself that this was something she would have to get used to, doing the bulk of the work on her grant in the late night and early morning hours. At least she shouldn’t have to worry much about fighting other researchers for telescope time.

Once they were past the Medical Center, the University buildings resembled basalt carvings in an art gallery, illuminated here and there by security lights. A lone patrol car, going the other way, passed them when they turned down California. The observatory was dark as well. Cynthia parked the Rover and cut the lights, letting her night vision take over. They exited the vehicle and approached the gate. Christophe fumbled in his pocket and extracted the keys to the building, which could only be signed out for during regular business hours. It seemed she was more dependent on Christophe than she’d hoped to be.

The tour of the facilities she’d taken with Eric and the other students had been helpful. She had no trouble leading her brother up to the telescope chamber and the work station.

Once they had pulled up the files they needed on their laptops, Cynthia surveyed the room. “I suppose we should go through all the scopes and see which ones will work best for us. Where would you like to begin–the big gun?”

Christophe nodded. “Get the most complicated one out of the way first, I say. I’ve been up a lot longer than you have.”

“I suspect you’ll be as nocturnal as I am before long.”

“I’m getting there. Let’s see how this homegrown program works.”

The streets of Compton fascinated Buford. He marveled at the small houses, some smaller even than his ma’s house, laid out on grid-like streets. People sat out on their porches, probably to escape the heat. It almost reminded him of home, except for the general lack of trees or plants. This place needed shade badly.

As his uncle drove them into the inner city, the houses gave way to apartment complexes and small squat stores flush to the multi-lane roads. Strange and colorful symbols adorned some of the building walls. Maybe they were a type of mural the city had sponsored to celebrate Labor Day. Buford didn’t know much about art, but California was supposed to be sophisticated. The people here probably had to do something to break up the line of concrete. It was like driving indoors.

They were headed to a Baptist church his uncle had chosen out of the phonebook, mostly on the basis of it being Baptist. Unfortunately, they were about forty-five minutes late for their appointment. No one had told them about the block parties they would have to drive around, or the number of people who would offer to clean their windows. The people here loved their cars.

A car cut in front of them, and Uncle Wilbur slammed on the brakes of the Chevy. They were a bit soft after the cross-country drive, and the vehicle nearly back-ended the Lexus ahead of them. His uncle said something very unchristian and jammed a thick-knuckled hand down on the horn.

Oh-I-Wish-I-Were-In-The-Land-Of-Cotton the car blared, and people on the streets turned to stare.

“Lord Christ,” Uncle Wilbur cursed, “I forgot about the horn.”

The Nova chose that exact moment to die.

People gathered around the car, peering in and pointing at the hapless men inside. Looking up at shades of eggplant, mahogany, gingerbread, and high yellow, Buford had never felt so white.

“Make sure those back doors are locked,” the Reverend W. Robert Merrimon ordered, “while I call the church.” He fumbled with the cell phone.

“Not the police?”

“I trust in the power of the Lord,” his uncle stated as the car rocked, “and the church is on redial. Damned tiny buttons!”

The car rocked again, and a fist thumped on the windshield. “God better move fast. I don’t think they’re gonna bother with the doors.”

“Don’t look scared! That’s what they want.”

“Well, they got it. Shouldn’t that make ‘em happy enough to leave?”

Bang! The back window shattered under a tire iron. Buford wailed and covered his head.

Then, silence. Buford peeked through his fingers and saw that the faces had withdrawn. An older man in a black suit stood outside, examining them curiously. A gold cross glinted from under his shirt collar.

He nudged his uncle with his elbow. “Hey, look. There’s the preacher.”

“Praise Jesus,” Uncle Wilbur said, heartfelt, and rolled down the window. “Reverend Chenault, I presume? I’m Robert Merrimon, the minister who called you.”

“You seem to have caused some sort of disturbance,” Chenault said in a rich voice that cracked at the end of the words. He looked amused, but Buford didn’t get the joke.

His uncle must have gotten it; he laughed and shook Reverend Chenault’s outstretched hand. “It’s this idiot nephew of mine. He has a thing about the Dukes of Hazzard and had ‘em set him up with a horn like–well–it’s heritage, not hate, as they say.”

“Hey!” Buford complained. “That was cousin Lonnie, not me. We borrowed his car.”

“Shut up, Bu,” Uncle Wilbur growled through a clenched smile.

“Indeed,” Chenault said. “In what way did you hope I could assist you, Reverend Merrimon?”

“Well, to start with, you could recommend a good car dealer,” Uncle Wilbur replied. “I think we need a new vehicle.”

Something was poking Cynthia. She grumbled and turned over, but the poking continued. She opened the covers enough to see that it was Grandma. Why had she given her that key?

“Heather Bishop called again.”

Cynthia howled and pulled her pillow over her head, but her grandmother simply raised her voice. “The neighbors have begun complaining about that car. There’s some sort of rule against having a nonrunning vehicle on our premises, and they’re going to cite us.”

“It’s not nonrunning... or at least I don’t think so. Christophe got it to our driveway, didn’t he?”

“He might have brought it in by tow truck. Personally, I think the complaints are based on its esthetic value... or lack thereof.”

“They have a point, but that’s pretty shallow of them.”

“Dear, this is a gated community in California. It’s a pretty shallow place. Maybe Herman will know what to do.”

“Herman?”

“He lives right over there, dear, next door. I met him on the golf course the first Saturday after your brother and I arrived.”

“And he hit on you?”

Grandma’s laugh had a high trill. “Flattering, but no. Herman is a nice older man. He’s lived here for about five years. He and his wife moved to California after he retired. The warmth was good for her rheumatoid arthritis. She passed away last July.”

“Sorry to hear it,” Cynthia murmured automatically.

“He taught history at Syracuse. Naturally, we began trading stories.”

“Naturally.”

“Be nice. I’m going to have him over to dinner soon.”

Ah, yes–dinner. She was going to have to think about where to hunt for that, and soon. The hunger was back. Tonight, however, astronomy beckoned.

The notice read: “MANDATORY staff meetings next week for the following people to review Physics curriculum for Fall Quarter. 8 AM, Discussion Room.” The word ‘MANDATORY’, in all caps, had been highlighted in yellow. Cynthia checked the other mailboxes and noted that no one else’s slip had been similarly decorated. Most of the senior staff seemed to be exempt from the meeting.

This Anton Hargrave, who had taken over the department, was overstepping his bounds. She wasted no time in airing her opinion to Eric, but he seemed unsympathetic.

“It’s mostly to train the new teaching assistants, but we all have to know the syllabi and lecture topics so we can cover for one another. People do get sick, you know.”

“I understand the reasoning, and I think it’s good planning. I just can’t do it, that’s all. It’s not as if the clause ‘no daytime classes’ wasn’t written into my contract.”

“Mmm. At the faculty meeting this afternoon, Anton was saying that he would have never granted such terms to any member of the staff, even if you do have–what was it?”

“Adult-onset porphyria.” Cynthia clenched her fists. How dare ‘Anton’ question their contact? “It doesn’t matter what he would have granted or not granted,” she replied in measured tones. “It’s in writing and it’s legally binding. The ADA backs me up.”

“I understand that, I do. Don’t expect next year’s contract to be similar, though, if he’s still around, or expect a renewal at all if you argue with him too much.”

His words sunk in and her anger shifted to desperation. “Do they even offer these courses in the evening? Perhaps I’m exempt for this year.” She was on a cliff, clutching for handholds. What would she do next year when her contract was back up for renewal?

Eric answered the spoken question. “A lot of the labs take place in the evening. We offer night courses, too, for people who work during the daytime.”

This was not good. Not participating in the training would cause enough trouble on its own, but she would also be ill equipped for the classes that did take place during her waking hours. “Define night courses.”

“The usual–they start anywhere from six to about seven-thirty.”

“That’s still awfully early.”

Eric’s fingers were resting on a pyramid of picture jasper that doubled as a paperweight. They began to drum softly on its beige-and-brown landscape. “I hope you defined what ‘night’ consists of in that contract of yours, then.”

Oh, dear.

Later that night, as Cynthia took down measurements at the observatory–alone–another option occurred to her, perhaps because he was off with his new boyfriend: Christophe. Perhaps he could attend the meetings, participate in her place. He’d probably have to be there at the beginning of her fall labs, too, until the sun set earlier. Hargrave would probably scream when he found out. Christophe would likely scream, too, but it was the only way she was going to be able to manage things.

She looked for her brother when she got home, but he was still gone. This ‘Dylan’ was obviously someone very special. She’d just have to talk to him tomorrow night about attending the sessions. They were booked for the observatory again, so he’d be around for that. At least he’d said he would be back. She didn’t plan to visit the office tomorrow, anyway. The hunger had returned, and she needed to do something about that.

When she got up, Cynthia talked to Christophe about subbing for her. As she predicted, he wasn’t thrilled with the prospect.

“That’s pretty early,” he said. “I’ve gotten out of the habit of early morning activities.”

“I’m not surprised. You seem to be out most nights, and sometimes I get home before you do,” she teased. “Is it because of this Dylan?”

He gave her a guarded smile. “Is it my fault he lives in Laguna Beach? It’s a long drive back here.”

“Why don’t you bring him to the house some evening? I’d like to meet him.”

Christophe raised an eyebrow. “I’ll ask. By the way, Grandma wants to talk to you again.”

As usual, Grandma was in the kitchen. She set down her cooking ladle as soon as she saw Cynthia and snatched a card off of the pile of mail next to the phone. “I found this jammed in our door today.” Grandma presented it to Cynthia with a scowl. “The messenger didn’t have the courage to ring the doorbell and deliver it in person.”

Cynthia examined it. “A citation. Can they actually fine us over Josie’s car?”

“According to the deed, they can. But I think we’ve found a way out of it.”

“Oh? Was Herman helpful, then?”

“Very helpful. I’ve called the harridan and we’re going to meet with her Friday after school to discuss the issue.”

“After school? So, ‘we’ is Josie?”

“Yes, Josie will accompany me. It’s her car and she should be involved. She keeps reminding me that she’s not a child, so she’s going to learn how to deal with adult situations.”

“It was nice of you not to make her face school and Heather on the same day. Do me a favor; see if you can get her to move the meeting to eight in the evening. I want to be there, too. It’s time I met this woman.”

“Will the sun even be down by eight, dear?”

“Just barely. I’ll sleep in my clothes.”

Her grandmother began to say something else, but they were interrupted by a bellow from upstairs.

“Grandma! Where’s my red tank top?”

“You’re not wearing a tank top tomorrow!” Grandma retorted. “And come down here to ask questions. Yelling is rude!”

The words echoed up the stairwell and Cynthia tried not to laugh.

Thump-thump-thump on the steps. Josie, wearing shorts and a sports bra, entered the den. “Well, what am I supposed to wear?”

“You’re supposed to wear a real shirt to school, young lady. And pants.”

“I’ll burn up! It’s hot!”

Grandma rubbed her thumb and forefinger together. “This is the world’s smallest violin, playing for you. Go back upstairs and put something on over that bra.”

“This covers up more than my bathing suit does.”

“Running around with that on in the house isn’t acceptable, either. A girl from Texas should be able to take the heat.”

“Arkansas.”

“It’s hot in September there, too. Get over it.”

Josie stomped back upstairs, grumbling.

“She’s antsy about tomorrow,” Grandma said. “It’s going to be hard for her, starting a new school in a place where everyone is so different from her.”

“I remember.”

“You weren’t as different as she’s going to be. In the base schools, you had military parents like everyone else. When you went to private school later, your economic class and educational background were far closer to your fellow students than hers will be.”

“Only on Mother’s side. Dad was just a grunt, you know.”

“A term based on conversational ability, in his case. But he knew you and Christophe were too bright to leave in an underfunded classroom.”

“I think maybe he didn’t know what to do with us after Mother died.”

“He wasn’t a caveman, dear. He wanted what was best for you.”

“I wish I could see Josie off tomorrow, see her as soon as she gets home.”

“You’ll just have to wait till sunset.”

Cynthia’s eyes snapped open at dusk. Josie. School. She dressed rapidly and hurried downstairs. If the day hadn’t gone well, it was important that Josie know they were all there to support her. She would ask Grandma for her impressions later, after Josie went to bed.

Her young charge was in the library, watching Grandma flip through textbooks. Cynthia spotted a science text and couldn’t resist doing the same. The information inside was pretty basic; she’d have to supplement it with some outside readings.

She set it down and peered at the English book Grandma had just finished examining. “What do you think?”

“It’s a start. I think we should have done more with her summer reading, but we didn’t have much time to prepare her. With our assistance, she should be able to handle her courseload.”

“Yeah, you can do my homework for me.”

Oops. She’d gotten distracted from the most important part of Josie going to school–Josie. “So, tell me about your new school, Josie. What are the other students like?”

“They’re okay, but a little weird. Most of the kids are Oriental.”

“Asian, dear,” Grandma said. “Oriental is an archaic term.”

“I thought you liked archaic words. Are you sure this is a public school? I didn’t have to share any books, and most of them are new. There were hardly any black people at all, either. Wouldn’t there be, um, a greater racial blend in a public school? Unless everyone’s rich here.”

Cynthia gave that some thought. She didn’t remember seeing many African-American students circulating around the UCI campus. She hadn’t seen many in the stores, either. “I think most people here make a certain amount of money. But I think Asians might be the predominant minority population here.” It would account for the spectacular selection of soy products, bok choy, and other Asian foods in the supermarket.

“The ones that aren’t Asian are mostly blonde. One girl tried speaking in Spanish to me because she thought I was Mexican. It was weird.”

Grandma broke in, eyes twinkling. “It means they find you exotic, dear. You should be flattered. Tell Cynthia about your classes.”

“Well, I have an auto shop class that looks a little basic, but it’s one of those classes you have to take before you take the one you want. And English, nothing really special, and, oh yeah, I got into the honors algebra course. I guess all that stupid homework helped.”

Cynthia cheered and hugged the teen. “That’s great! You worked very hard on that; you must be really proud.”

“Glutton for punishment, more like.” The girl’s pleased smile belied her words.

“What about science?”

“Yeah, I’m taking some coordinated science course or another, and chemistry.”

“Just remember that explosions are good in special effects, but bad in the chem lab. What about physics?”

“I gotta move up in math before I do physics.”

“We’ll work on that. Anything else?”

“Yeah… French.” She gave them a smug smile. “No more secret conversations!”

The clubhouse was covered in faux brick like the gatehouse, and flanked by similarly wretched trees. Cynthia knew just how they felt, starved of moisture and planted in bad soil. The double door entrance, cool glass, resisted when she tugged at the handle.

“It’s locked. Are you sure Heather realized that we’d moved it to eight tonight?” Cynthia fretted, smoothing her silk blouse again. “She may think you were putting it off till Monday.”

“No, I was very clear about the day,” Grandma grumbled and rapped on the glass. “Maybe someone will hear us.”

“I could call her on my cell. Do you have the number?”

They were interrupted by the crackle of an intercom. Josie was standing at a box on the wall to their right, pressing a button and talking into it. A spot at the top of the doorway made a buzzing sound and clicked.

“We can go in now.” The doors yielded to Josie’s hand, and they entered.

Cynthia surveyed Heather as her grandmother and the President of the Neighborhood Association exchanged greetings. The queen of annoying phone calls was older than Cynthia had imagined her to be, probably in her late fifties. The hair framing her face was a carefully frosted blonde, rather than the gray the sagging skin on her neck implied. She was neatly dressed in a cream-colored dress set that complimented her tanning-bed complexion.

“Heather, let me introduce my granddaughter. This is Cynthia Leach, a professor at the University, and this is Josie Chambers, my great-niece. It’s her car that’s the bone of contention.”

Heather lightly clasped Cynthia’s hand, then nodded to the teen. “You look a little young to be driving.”

“I have a permit. Besides, I’m not driving it at the moment. I’m working on the engine.”

The woman’s eyes descended to Josie’s hands. Despite the scrubbing the teen had done, there were still signs of grease under the teen’s fingernails. “I see.”

Cynthia made a mental note to get Josie a better brush. They should have forced a manicure on her before the meeting. “Josie is interested in how machines work. We believe that helping her develop her interests is the best way to encourage her to learn. So many young people have rote information shoved down their throats under the banner of ‘education’.”

Josie flushed and stared at the floor. She probably didn’t like being referred to in third person.

Heather ignored her. “A praiseworthy goal, of course, but you should have provided her with books or waited to enroll her in shop. The driveway and the floor of the garage are supposed to be kept in good condition. Oil spots would lower the resale value of your property–and thus ours.”

Cynthia began to protest, but Grandma waved her silent. “Mrs. Bishop,” she began, “Josie uses a dropcloth under the car when she’s working on it, and she doesn’t leave it out in the driveway.”

“It’s not just some standard of mine, Eleanor,” Heather said. “You take these things too personally. Perhaps you didn’t know this, coming from the Southeast, but we have rules in California about the amount of pollution cars can emit. I’m afraid that cars aren’t permitted on the roads without some sort of pollution control device, unless they came out in the last decade or so.”

“I understand,” Grandma said coolly. “However, cars manufactured before the mid-seventies are exempt from those regulations if their emissions are consistent with the normal emissions of the standard model from that age. Josie’s 1957 DeSoto Adventurer falls into this category. It could even be considered a collector’s car or antique vehicle. It’s old enough for either category.” She pulled the Division of Motor Vehicles envelope out of her breast pocket. “We were happy with the standard registration, since we didn’t know how the restoration would go. I have the papers here, if you would like to photocopy them for our file. Don’t worry–I won’t let Josie take the car out too often, and we’ll always try to use the cleanest fuel. We want to keep the skies as clean as you do–maybe more, since my eldest granddaughter is an astronomer.”

On their walk back to the house, Josie snickered. “You showed her, Grandma!”

“She certainly did.”

The teen poked Cynthia in the upper arm. “What’s this crap about ‘encouraging young people to learn’? I thought you liked me.”

Cynthia poked her back. “I do like you. I just had to put it in terms Mrs. Bishop would understand.”

“Yeah, well, I’m a person, not one of your principles.” Josie shoved her.

“Believe me, I’ve never mistaken you for a principle.” Cynthia returned the shove, sending the girl into the oleander bushes. “Ohmigosh! I’m sorry.”

Back at the house, they made banana splits in celebration. Grandma had two scoops of vanilla ice cream with strawberry syrup, while Cynthia topped her scoops with fudge sauce. Josie piled entirely too much chocolate ice cream atop her banana, and then proceeded to splatter Reddi-Wip all over the counter while she made her finishing touches. Grandma handed her a spoon and a washcloth.

Afterwards, Cynthia went to the computer room to check over Christophe’s work. She was surprised by his absence–she’d expected him to at least stay home until he’d learned the outcome of the meeting. She was studying a column of data, mind racing ahead to how she would interpret the numbers into words, when a strange awareness prickled along her spine. Someone was climbing the steps to the house. She didn’t know whom, but the feeling was too strong to ignore. She dropped the papers and met Grandma in the foyer just as the front door opened. It was her brother, back from his sojourns.

Behind him was a tall, slender man with pale hair. Norwegian blond gone white, Cynthia thought, possibly bleached out by the sun. It was a sharp contrast to the heavy black bomber jacket he wore. Equally pale eyes scanned the room, skimming over Grandma before zeroing in on her.

“This is Dylan,” Christophe said.

She took this as her cue to step forward. “Cynthia Leach. Pleased to meet you.”

“Dylan Duvoth. It’s entirely my pleasure.” He accepted her outstretched hand and performed a sweeping bow before kissing her fingers. His eyes shifted to Grandma and she was next. “Madame. I am honored.”

“Eleanor Chambers. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Duvoth.” Cynthia could have sworn her grandmother giggled.

“Please call me Dylan, milady.” There was a faint lilt in his voice–probably British, but with definite overtones of California mixed in. “You’re very kind to receive me in your home.” When he rose, the lamplight from the den reflected in his eyes, catlike. Cynthia bristled as she realized why she was so aware of this visitor.

Dylan took notice of her stiffer posture. “I’m so pleased you invited me to visit, Miss Leach. I’ve wanted to meet you for a long time.”

“Professor Leach,” she corrected. “I think we should talk in private before proceeding any further. Please follow me.” She sidled down the hall, afraid to turn her back on him. Christophe began to exit with them and Cynthia stopped him with a pointed finger. “You. You stay here with Grandma. I’ll talk to you later.”

Dylan’s footfalls were soft behind her in the hall, like an animal’s. “Please don’t blame Christophe. It’s not his fault, you know.”

“This way.” She directed him into the downstairs library and closed the door behind them. “What do you want here?”

“I see you have guessed my nature. I wasn’t certain you had.”

“No, not immediately.” How could she have been foolish enough to invite another vampire into her home? She wasn’t certain if the old legends were entirely true–she hadn’t tried entering anywhere uninvited even when she had been alive–but at least one line of defense was gone now. “Who are you, really?”

“I am who I said I was. Dylan Duvoth. I’m as close to the Welcome Wagon as you’re going to get.”

“There are others?”

“Not around here. Don’t take this the wrong way, but what is a vampire doing in Stepford?”

“What? Oh, I see. That’s my business, not yours.”

“So it is–my apologies... Professor Leach.” He traced the spine of one of the books. “Hmm. Men of Iron, Le Morte D’Arthur, Holy Blood, Holy Grail. These must belong to the grande dame.”

“Please don’t touch her things.”

The hand was withdrawn. “Apologies again. I didn’t mean to frighten you by appearing on your doorstep. I asked Christophe if you would come out to Laguna Beach and he said you weren’t very sociable. Which is a shame, since I am.”

“I... haven’t gotten out much since...”

Dylan’s face lit. “You’re new! I thought you might be when your brother brought me home without hesitation.”

He was suggesting that she’d made herself vulnerable. “I’ll flog him later. How did you two meet?”

“We met in one of the beachside establishments for gentlemen of our persuasion. One I own, actually. An intoxicated fellow was making a nuisance of himself and Christophe decided to rescue me. I decided to let him.”

“How long have you known him?”

“Perhaps six weeks now.”

“And he told you it was time to come home with him to meet the family?”

Dylan laughed. He had a pleasant voice. “No, he said that you wanted to meet me. I wouldn’t just pop in on another vampire. That would be very rude.”

“I guess it would be. So, you live...er, reside in Laguna Beach?”

Another laugh. “Yes. It’s my patch. Like most predators, vampires are territorial. No one I know is interested in Irvine, so I doubt you’re going to have any problems. You might never have met one here if not for your brother.”

“You know other vampires?”

“Yes, but most of them aren’t nice people. I leave them to their territories, and they leave me to mine. At least they do now.” Cynthia suspected that he was keeping at least one story untold. “Don’t worry, none of them would come into this area of Orange County. They tend to roll up the streets after ten here.”

“Oh! Well, um, that’s good to know. Does that mean I should avoid Laguna Beach?”

“Not at all. I doubt you would seek out the same prey I do–and they would be unlikely to be drawn to you. A simple matter of sexual preference.”

A hand thumped at the door, then shoved it open. Josie‘s head popped in through the opening. “Is that your Ducati out there? Can I see it?”

“Josie!” Cynthia snapped, but Dylan smiled.

“Indeed it is. I find that it gets me in and out of highway traffic more efficiently than cars.” He turned back to Cynthia. “Is this young melanth the car-loving cousin Christophe told me about?”

“That’s me!” the girl grinned. “So, can I see it?”

“Josie, you’ve interrupted. Go back in the other room.”

She ignored Cynthia, continuing to stare at Dylan. “Please?”

“Why not let her look? It’ll serve the dual purpose of making her happy and giving us privacy.”

Cynthia relented. “Okay, you can go look. No taking anything apart, though. And no taking it for a ride!”

Josie replied by slamming the door.

“An enthusiastic child.”

“You have no idea. So, now that we’ve met and know each other’s territory, what happens? I am, as you guessed, new to all this.”

“That’s up to you. Do you object to your brother visiting me?”

“Does he know what you are?”

“Of course he does. He figured it out right away, so I deduced he had personal knowledge to draw from. Most people don’t believe in us.”

“Why didn’t he tell me you were a vampire?”

“Because I told him not to.”

She flushed. “It sounds like he said plenty about me.”

“Don’t blame him; he didn’t really have a choice. I had to know what I was dealing with, so I compelled him.”

Vampires could compel people, just like in the movies. Cynthia mentally filed away that information. “So you know everything about me, including my underwear size.”

His brow mock-furrowed. “An odd bit of brotherly knowledge. The times have changed indeed.”

“You may think it’s funny, but I don’t. You know where I live, who my family members are, everything. I don’t know anything about you.”

Dylan sighed. “I apologize. I didn’t mean to intimidate you.” He spread his arms. “I’ve tried to be as nonthreatening as possible. I waited until I was asked before I visited. I didn’t lie about my nature and have answered all your questions honestly, even about questioning your brother. Your family, the most loyal attendants a vampire can have, know I am here and will come to your aid if I endanger you. In addition, I’ve placed a valuable possession into the hands of your young cousin. What other surety can I offer you?”

“Very flowery language.”

He shrugged. “I was an actor when I was alive. How else do you think I wound up in California?”

It took Cynthia a long time to get to sleep after Dylan departed. The implication of other vampires out there was too disturbing. How myopic she had been, never considering a dark world that stretched beyond Penelope and herself. Good and bad scenarios kept popping up in her disobedient mind, difficult to quell.

She felt like she’d just drifted off when darkness fell, awakening her with the stabbing pains of hunger. She sat up on the edge of the bed and wondered how to get a decent meal. Trolling the bars might be the best idea. Since it was Saturday, they’d surely be packed soon with students celebrating the beginning of summer semester. After her misadventure at the other bar, she’d decided that perhaps it was time to part with a few ethics where seduction was concerned. Unfortunately, she had no idea how to go about seducing strangers, especially men. What should she wear? Men liked slutty things, didn’t they? Cynthia slid button-down shirt after button-down shirt aside. Oh, that one had short sleeves–but no, it was just another button-down shirt with short sleeves. Crap.

Maybe Josie had something that would fit her. She pulled on jeans and a tee before heading upstairs to the teen’s room.

Her young friend was delighted with the idea of dressing Cynthia for the clubs. “Now, you’re gonna wear something that looks good for a change!”

“What’s wrong with the way I dress?”

“Bo-ring… Stuffy… just like a professor. Try this.” She pulled a black tube top with spaghetti straps out of her closet. “I bet it’d fit you.”

“Grandma let you get something this revealing?”

“It comes with a jacket,” Josie said defensively, yanking the sleeve of the jacket out as proof.

“Uh huh. I still bet you laid it face down on the counter so she wouldn’t get a good look at it.” From the flicker of guilt that crossed the teen’s face, Cynthia knew she’d guessed correctly. “I’m taller than you. It won’t cover my stomach.”

“It’s not supposed to, silly. Do you have low riders?” She stared at Cynthia’s open mouth. “I guess you don’t.”

“No. But I will take the top. And the jacket.”

Cynthia left the house with a strong sense of hope, but it exploded on the 405 when the announcer on WUCI reminded her of the date. September 11th. How could she go dancing on September 11th? It would be sacrilege. Hunger gnawed in her belly, insistent, making her a danger to others. She needed to feed, even if her father would think her unpatriotic.

Perhaps she could combine the two. Surely there would be some sort of memorial service. No, they would have done that during the daytime. Perhaps there would be a candlelight vigil. Was there a war memorial in Irvine?

The closest match she could find in her GPS was the Marine Corps Memorial Park, located off Barranca Parkway. She pointed the Range Rover in that direction.

When she arrived, there wasn’t much time until the park closed. Still, the ballparks were still full of spectators. Hurrying down the walk between the fields, Cynthia passed no sign of commemoration for the victims of the terrorist attack. Perhaps there’d been a moment of silence before the games started.

The pathways were also full of people: parents and children and dogs, young couples in love, and some singleton pedestrians. Cynthia drifted through the latter until she found a likely prospect, a young man walking alone at the far edge of the park, away from the activity in the soccer fields. He had a large white dog, an Akita. She began her approach by walking up and telling him how beautiful his companion was.

“Thank you. Her name’s Chloe.” His eyes flickered from her face down to Josie’s tube top. It was too tight across the chest and her bosom bulged over the top like peach meringue. He refocused on her face. “I haven’t seen you around the park before.”

She’d wanted attention, and now she had it. She just hoped the lights from the soccer fields weren’t showing the blush she felt spreading across her cheeks. “No, I’m new to Irvine.”

“Oh, well, pleased to meet you.” He stuck out a hand. “I’m Jeremy.”

“Pleased to meet you.” She took it and shook firmly. His eyebrows went up and she turned the grip into a clasp. Damn it, not feminine enough.

He was exercising his dog. He was the webmaster for one of the small businesses in town, so at least they had something they could converse about. She mentioned her brother the programmer and their relocation from North Carolina without going into too much detail about her occupation or where she lived. She didn’t want him following her home.

The dog glanced at Cynthia as they walked. She didn’t know much about canines–her frequent relocations had precluded pets–but she didn’t think that Chloe trusted her. Smart dog.

She followed his lead, since he seemed to know where he was going. They moved farther away from the soccer fields, and the stark lighting softened. Ahead, she saw several shelters for family groups. One was still being used, but the occupants were preparing to leave. One of the men was dumping ice out of a cooler, and a young boy was holding open a trash bag for two girls clearing the table. Her night vision had become phenomenal.

Her attention was drawn back to her prey when Jeremy stopped walking. He bent and began undoing the chain on Chloe’s collar.

“Oh, is there a dog run here?” She glanced around, but all she saw were the shelters and an open field bracketed another parking lot.

“No,” he said, “but she needs to have a little play time. You won’t squeal on us, will you?” He finished unhooking the collar, but the dog went nowhere. Instead, her glittering black eyes stared up at Cynthia.

“Go on,” Jeremy urged, patting her rump. “Go play.” Chloe shrugged and bounded off. He watched while the white shape grew smaller, less distinct among the long shadows. “I hope she doesn’t go far. It’s pretty dark out tonight.”

She knew better, but couldn’t stop herself. “That’s because we just had the New Moon. If they didn’t have so many lights–” she gestured to the sports fields “–you’d be able to see the stars very well.”

He smiled. “Such as?”

“Well,” she pointed, “There’s Cygnus over there. See the large cross the stars form? That bright star over there is Altair, part of Aquila. If there weren’t for those street lights, you’d be able to see Capricorn, too.”

“You know a lot about stars. Are you a teacher?”

Damn. She’d revealed far too much. Cynthia didn’t know what to say next, so she decided to try that ‘compelling’ thing Dylan had talked about. She turned to him and took his chin. She peered into his face, her eyes narrow and intense. “Close your eyes and I’ll give you a kiss.”

Jeremy’s eyes closed, and she was astonished. Was it really going to be this easy? She leaned closer to his neck and extended her fangs.

“Rawwrr!” Something clamped down on her arm, yanking her away from Jeremy. It was Chloe, the dog. From the shelter, another dog began barking as well, straining against its bond. One of the parents came to the edge of the shelter, peering into the darkness.

“Off!” Cynthia shook her arm, but the Akita hung on. She heard the fabric of the jacket rip and knew her skin was about to do the same. Rage surged, replacing hunger. “I said, off!” A hard kick to the belly knocked the dog sprawling to the sidewalk, whimpering in pain.

Shock replaced anger. She’d hurt an animal! How could she have been so cruel? What had she become? More of the family was staring at them now, but no one ventured from the shelter. Could they see the evil in her from that far away?

Then she remembered her companion. What about Jeremy? Had he seen the fangs? What would he think about her hurting his dog? She turned and saw him standing still, eyes closed and lips puckered for his kiss.

Forget it. There was no way she could go on like this with a guy. She sighed and snapped her fingers. “No kiss, Jeremy. I don’t think your dog likes me.”

Jeremy jerked and looked around for the dog. “What’s wrong, Chloe? Are you hurt?” He bent over her, pulled something out of her mouth. “What’s this?”

It was a piece of dark cloth, the one that had covered Cynthia’s elbow, now exposed under the sports lights. “Like I said, she doesn’t like me.”

Josie was still up when Cynthia returned, the worse for wear. “What did you do to my jacket?” Josie eyed the limp, ripped fabric draped across Cynthia’s arm.

“I didn’t do anything to it. A large dog did this.”

The teen snatched the jacket away and examined the damage. “They let dogs into the clubs here? California really is progressive.”

“I didn’t go to the club.”

“No, it looks like you crawled under the porch with the hounds. If you weren’t going to go dancing, why did you want to borrow my best outfit?”

Cynthia closed her eyes and counted to five. “I was planning to go dancing, but I forgot it was September 11th. The days all melt together for me now. Everything’s all one long night to me.” One long night. An endless night to be endured forever.

Josie was oblivious to her depressing epiphany. “You chickened out.”

“I did not chicken out!”

“Yeah, you did. You were afraid someone would hit on you.”

“Nonsense! I needed to attract someone, so...” She saw the dark eyes widening and closed her mouth. “Never mind.”

“But I do mind.” She tossed the jacket on her un-slept-in bed. “This sounds interesting.”

“Get used to disappointment. It’s time for you to go to bed.”

The girl’s gaze fell to the tube top, which had escaped damage. “What about the rest of my outfit?”

“I’ll get you a new one. Something that doesn’t resemble a sausage casing.”

Grandma stared when Cynthia, clad in tee and jeans, entered the kitchen shortly after nightfall. “Is that what you’re wearing?”

Was she losing track of time again? Cynthia glanced quickly at the calendar hanging above the telephone. “I’m not going to the observatory tonight. I’m taking the entire weekend off for a change.” The hunger had become impossible to ignore. She was ready to hit someone over the head and drag them into the bushes for their blood.

“Herman is coming for dinner! You girls are impossible. I’ve already sent Josie upstairs to change twice.”

Now Cynthia noticed the royal blue silk under the apron. Sunday dinner! Of course Herman was coming tonight, and Grandma was up in arms about it. “Argh! Be right back!” She dashed back up the stairs, stomach cramping, and ditched the dark clothing for her sleeveless tuxedo dress. Off came the wooden hair clasp, and she began combing her hair into the proper configuration for a French twist.

She was finishing up with a cameo hairclip when the door burst open and Josie charged in. The girl was wearing black silk slacks with a polo shirt. “Do you know what she wants us to wear? These are the nicest pants I have, but–wow!” She stared at Cynthia. “You look really good!”

“Thanks.” Cynthia pinned up her hair and surveyed Josie. “The pants will work, but the shirt is too casual for what Grandma has in mind.“

“I know, but I’m not sure what to put with it.”

“Let’s go check your closet. I know I didn’t see half of what you had last night. Grandma keeps hauling you off to the mall.”

“She thinks I’m a Barbie doll.”

“More like a Skipper doll, but I take your meaning.” Cynthia made some final touches to her hair, and they crossed to Josie’s room. It looked like a sartorial explosion had taken place; clothes were flung everywhere. Cynthia picked up a striped boatneck and restored it to its closet hanger. “Let’s see… No, that’s too warm. Too casual, too casual, too… Ah, this will work.” She pulled out a turquoise silk shirt. “I have a pin you can use at the collar to make it more dressy.”

Josie sighed with relief. “Thanks. Do you think Grandma is in love with this guy? She’s pretty wound up about this.”

“I don’t know.” The thought of Grandma with anyone besides Grandpa Chambers didn’t gel in Cynthia’s mind. “I guess we’ll just have to see them together.”

The doorbell rang and a cry came from the kitchen, “That’s him!”

Josie ran for the door, but Grandma reached it nearly as quickly. Somewhere between the stove and the front hall, the older woman had lost the apron and the flour on her hands. “Open it slowly and say ‘Welcome’,” she whispered to the teen.

Josie did as she was told and stepped back to admit the focus of everyone’s attention. Cynthia and Christophe both craned their necks, trying to get a view of their guest. When Grandma took his arm and led him into the room, they straightened so they would appear less curious.

Herman was a slightly built man whose hair growth was limited to his eyebrows. His version of dressing for dinner involved a new gray sweater and dark slacks. It also apparently involved a bath; the fringe of hair surrounding his ears was damp. Rather than soap, he smelled of strong cologne. It made Cynthia’s nose itch.

“Eleanor, dear, you look lovely tonight.”

“Thank you. My heavens, your arms are full. I told you that you didn’t need to bring anything. Here, Josie, take these flowers and put them on the table.”

Josie took the vase of black-eyed susans from him and bore them with great ceremony into the dining room. She glanced over at Cynthia significantly as she passed.

Grandma ignored the glance. “Herman Bauer, this is my granddaughter, Cynthia Leach. She teaches astronomy at the college.”

Herman clasped her outstretched hand. “Pleased to meet you. Another academic; why am I not surprised?”

Grandma turned to Christophe, who was tastefully clad in a cream Oxford shirt, pressed pants, jacket, and tie. “And this is my grandson, Christophe, her brother. He’s a programmer and he helps her with her research.”

He shook Christophe’s hand firmly. “Good to meet you, too. You come and go a lot. Do you work as a private consultant as well?”

Her brother chuckled. “No need around these parts. You can’t throw a rock without hitting a programmer. Every household seems to have one.”

“They’re needed,” Herman answered. Josie emerged from the dining room, and he turned. “And this pretty maiden is–?”

“The final member of my little family. My great-niece, Josie Chambers. She’s come to California for the educational opportunities.”

“Charmed. Which educational opportunities are you pursuing? Engineering? Computers? Literature, like our dear Eleanor?”

He bent over Josie’s hand, but she grabbed and shook his instead. “Auto repair.”

“I see.” Herman turned back to Grandma. “Everyone’s all dressed up. I should have worn something more formal.”

“You’re fine,” Grandma said.

“Everything here is usually so casual. I should have realized people from the East would be more sophisticated.”

“It’s fine, dear.”

Cynthia broke into the awkward moment. “May I take the bottle of wine to the kitchen for you? Or, perhaps, your bag of Doritos?” The request came out more brusquely than she had intended, but she was annoyed by the proprietary tone the man was taking with her grandmother. He hadn’t known her long enough to call her ‘our dear’ anything. And what was this business of her calling him ‘dear’ as well?

“Why, thank you.” He handed her the wine. “There’s no need to take the chips, though. I thought we might enjoy nibbling on them before dinner.”

Cynthia noted that he had already started nibbling. The bag was open and his fingernails were faintly orange. “Of course. Josie, would you mind putting these in a bowl? Set them on the table beside the crudités.”

“The what?”

“The raw vegetables.”

“Oh, okay.”

They clinked glasses of wine–and one soda–together to start dinner. After that, things went downhill. Everyone was too nervous to speak and Grandma looked hesitant to force conversation.

After three minutes of silent eating, Grandma turned to Josie. “Didn’t you have something you wanted to tell Herman?”

“Oh, yeah. Thank you, Mr. Bauer. For helping with the car. It was great.”

“You’re welcome.” Herman looked pleased. “I’m glad to do anything I can for Eleanor’s family.”

This was followed by more silence. Cynthia decided she’d better say something. “The flowers are lovely. Do they grow locally?”

“I grew them myself,” Herman said. “I found a green thumb when we moved out here.”

“He has all sorts of flowers around his house and yard,” Grandma said. “Even roses.” She sighed. “I miss my roses from back home.”

“I could bring you some,” Herman said.

“Oh, no. Don’t you cut those roses, Herman! They’re prettiest when they’re growing.”

“You could file papers with the Landscaping Committee to get permission to have your own,” Herman said. “I’d help you plant them.”

Grandma giggled, a jarring sound to Cynthia’s ears. “That’d be very sweet of you.”

After dinner, Herman shook everyone’s hand except Grandma’s, which he preferred to kiss. Once she had finished coaching Josie through her studies, and the teen had gone off to bed, Cynthia took Christophe aside. She intended to tell him that she’d decided to pass on the observatory that evening, but he headed her off at the pass.

“Are you okay?”

“What? Oh, yes. I just need to run out to do some errands.”

There was open concern on his face. “But you’re starving.”

“I didn’t know I was showing it that much. Okay, so I’m dying–uh, bad choice of words.”

“Come up to my room and sit down,” Christophe said. She followed him into the room and sat on the bed. After hitting ‘save’ on his computer, he sat down beside her and stuck out his arm. “Brother on tap.”

“Oh, I couldn’t.” But she stared at the arm anyway.

“You can’t go out like that. You’ll kill somebody if you’re this hungry.”

She stuck her tongue out at him, then bent over his arm. One swift nip later, blood was welling out of his wrist and she lapped it up. The clawing, stabbing pains in her stomach eased to a dull ache. When she thought she’d taken enough to hold her, she took a tissue and pressed it to the wound.

“All done. You might need to stay sitting for a few minutes. Press down on this and I’ll get you a Band-Aid.”

“Whuff,” Christophe said.

She caught him before he fell onto the floor. “Sorry, did it make you light-headed?”

He didn’t answer. His eyes were rolled back in his head.

“I could get you some juice or soda.” A sick déjà vu filled her. “Would you like some juice? Christophe?”

Not again, she thought, as she carried him to the bed and stretched him out. She shoved pillows under his feet, then took his wrist. His pulse was fluttery, his breathing quick and shallow. I didn’t take that much… did I?

Crap, crap, crap. Cynthia bit her wrist open and held it over her brother’s lips. She willed the blood to flow, but nothing happened. She bit deeper into her flesh and tried squeezing it, but not even a single drop came out.

Panic prickled through her. “Oh, no.” What should she do? Call 911? Then everyone would see the ambulance, know something had happened. There would be so much explaining to do, not only to the EMTs, but to Grandma. Josie? Josie would be terrified, afraid Cynthia would come after her again. Afraid that Cynthia couldn’t control herself. Cynthia was afraid of the same thing, too.

Desperation closed around her. No! She had to fight it, think. Think! She had to do something, and quickly. Her brother could die.

Dylan. Dylan would know what to do. She bent over Christophe’s lower torso. His belt clip was empty, so she began going through his pockets.

He murmured and his body twitched.

“I need your cell phone. Do you have Dylan’s number? Cell phone.”

He murmured again and one hand flopped towards the bedside table. She followed the movement and saw the phone sitting in the recharger. This was her night for missing clues.

Cynthia checked the speed dial. Dylan was #1. The family had been demoted.

Waiting between rings was agony; it seemed to take forever. What if his phone were shut off? What if all he had was a land line, and he wasn’t home? He was an older vampire and might be old-fashioned.

A click, and she could hear music and voices. “I thought we agreed that I would feed tonight, love.”

“This is Cynthia.”

“Borrowing little brother’s phone?”

She took a deep breath to collect her thoughts, and then blurted, “No! I’ve done something terrible! I need help!”

The time it took for Dylan to get to their home from Laguna Beach seemed interminable. She crept up and down the stairs, looking through the window for signs of his arrival, then returning to check on her brother. Her face burned with shame. Grandma must not find out. Christophe must live, and her grandmother must never know.

The tingle of the nearness of another vampire sent waves of relief through her and she almost forgot to disarm the security system before opening the door.

Dylan jumped off his motorcycle before it came to a full stop, and ran up the driveway. “Is he still alive?” was his first question.

“I think so.”

He glanced to the still figure on the bed. “Christophe?” Quickly moving to her brother’s side, Dylan checked his breathing. “It’s going to be all right, all right now.” He bit his own wrist, just as Cynthia had done, and extended it over Christophe’s mouth.

She tried not to stare at the drops of blood falling into his lips. The hunger surged through her again, but she was able to control it. Probably because I already drained my brother.

Christophe stirred and he looked upwards. He and Dylan smiled at one another.

“Are you better?” Dylan’s voice was gentle.

“Yes. Where did you come from?”

“The Undertow.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right.” He stroked Christophe’s brow.

“I should have known better.”

“Yes, you should have, but that can’t be helped now.”

Was there some sort of rule about not taking blood from your relatives? Some vampire taboo? “Known better? What do you mean?” Cynthia asked.

Dylan shifted his seat on the bed and looked up at her. “He told me that you hadn’t fed from him since your early days in North Carolina. So I–” a sheepish tone crept into his voice “–took from him a couple of days ago.” He patted Christophe’s hand. “Somebody here wants me to spend time with him instead of hunting for blood.”

“Oh. And then I took more of his blood, and it was too much.”

Christophe pulled himself up, resting against the headboard. “That’s why I should have known better. I felt fine and thought I’d recovered. It’s my fault.”

He didn’t even warn me? “You idiot! You scared me within an inch of–you scared me. Why didn’t you say something?”

“You needed the blood. You hadn’t asked me for a while, so I figured you were desperate.”

“You–well, I was, but what if you had died?”

Dylan broke in. “He’d have risen, and I would have found him chasing you around the room for his first meal when I arrived.”

Christophe chuckled, and she felt relief for the first time. The relief was followed by questions. She held up her mangled wrist. “I tried to do what you did, but I couldn’t get the blood to come back out.”

“You didn’t have enough. Just because it’s dead doesn’t mean your body has stopped protecting itself.” He stretched out his arm to her. “I saw the way you were staring. You’re plainly starving. Take some.”

“I–I can’t. You already gave some to him.”

“I’ve already fed this evening. I can feed again if I have to. You, however, are borderline dangerous. Take the blood–for your family’s sake, if nothing else”

Cynthia still wanted to refuse, but the memory of Christophe collapsed, pale, on the bed humbled her. She bent and put her lips to his wrist.

The surge of pleasure, of sweetness, that followed was almost too much to bear. Not since her first nights after the change, sharing from each other as she and Penelope made love, had she felt so good.

Afterwards, she sunk to the mattress next to her brother, trembling.

“Yes, she’s all right. She just has a rush,” Dylan’s voice said above her, but not to her. “Our kind’s blood is richer, more potent, than that of the living. The mix of alcohol and endorphins from dinner add an extra kick, of course.”

“Wow, her arm’s healed already.”

Cynthia glanced down dizzily and saw that it was so.

Tapping came from the other side of the door. “Hey, what’s going on in there? You woke me up.” Josie’s voice.

“We’re having a three-way,” Dylan announced cheerfully. “No spectators allowed.”

Cynthia sat up. “We’re just talking. Sorry we woke you. Go back to bed.”

“Aww…” The two waited, listening as the soft footsteps receded.

“I probably should go,” Dylan said. “Your grandmother will be the next to drop by, and I don’t think she’d appreciate the same answer.”

“Probably not.” He couldn’t go yet, there were so many questions she had, so much she didn’t know. “Could we talk alone? Downstairs, maybe?”

They settled in the breakfast nook, as far away from the bedrooms as they could get. “I have problems with this drinking blood business.”

“Nonsense. Don’t you remember what I said? We’d both fed from him in the same week. It was just an accident. I won’t take from him again.”

“It’s not just that. It’s… this hunger. When I, um, eat, I’ve discovered I have problems… stopping sometimes. Is that normal?”

“It depends on how hungry you are. And, I suppose, whether you want to stop. Not everyone cares about the welfare of his prey. I personally recommend drinking in moderation. Leaving a trail of drained bodies draws a lot of unpleasant attention, especially when the bodies wander away from their graves.”

“Sometimes I can’t control when I start drinking, either.” She looked into the pale eyes and saw no surprise in them, only understanding. Dylan might not be entirely trustworthy, but he was the only other vampire she knew. She told him about her attack on Josie, the small amount she’d gotten from the drunk outside a bar, and her experience with the student in the library. She omitted her disastrous attempt the night before. It didn’t count, since she hadn’t gotten any blood, and it was too humiliating to talk about.

His brow puckered. “How long are you going between feedings?”

“I don’t know… I wasn’t handed a schedule. I just look for blood when I’m hungry.”

“And you’ve been here since late August?”

“Thereabouts, yes.”

He slapped a hand on the arm of his chair with a muffled thwack. “You fool! You’ve been feeding less than once a week? Of course you’re losing control!” He held up the hand, palm towards her. “Let me rephrase that. Waiting until you’re hungry to start looking for blood is a very, very bad idea. It’s like mortals who shop for groceries when they’re hungry. Discretion and your sense of limits disappear. You need to find sources of blood before you get hungry.”

He sounded like he was addressing a small child. She gripped the edge of the table. “Hey, I’ve been playing this by ear. It’s not like I’ve had much time to think about blood since I arrived. I’ve had enough trouble trying to settle into a normal life again.”

He snorted. “Would you have forgotten to eat in a normal life?”

“Maybe. When I’m working hard on a project, I sometimes forget.”

“For a week?”

“Not for a week. Grandma reminds me before then. I’ve been having juice and eating soups–shouldn’t that help?”

He shook his head. “Not the same, not the same at all. You’re not a supermodel, you’re a vampire. You need to have blood. Other fluids are like milkshakes–fun to drink, but they won’t keep you running.”

“Why?”

A shrug and roll of the eyes was his answer.

“Okay, let’s postulate that blood provides some sort of special vampire nutrition not found in food. Why do I lose control?”

“Because,” the parent-to-child tone had returned, “you wait until you’re hungry to start looking for a meal, and you wind up bolting your food. Didn’t your grandparents teach you anything about foresight?”

So Christophe had told him that much about their background. “My grandparents did just fine. They didn’t realize they were raising a future vampire, though.”

“Yes, well, we can’t blame them for that. Our hunger isn’t like mortal hunger–it drives us crazy, makes us forget the niceties of polite society. Maintaining control is easier if you were accustomed to serious hunger in life. I get the impression from Christophe that you two were raised in a well-to-do environment. Did you ever go on a diet?”

“Of course not,” Cynthia proclaimed proudly. “Grandma always made sure that we ate properly and got plenty of exercise growing up.”

He pressed a pale hand to his forehead. “Right. Anals raising anals. I forgot.”

Dylan offered several suggestions for getting blood, but they were all unethical. Have sex with strangers, just to get access to their necks? Perhaps that worked for him–he was in the entertainment business, after all, where they had notoriously loose morals. Worse yet; feeding from her students during her office hours. Violate her sacred trust? Mugging people seemed much cleaner.

Oddly enough, Dylan took exception to this idea. “Attacking people and leaving them anemic instead of broke will bring you all sorts of trouble.”

“Somebody will figure out I’m a vampire?”

“No, the police will decide that they have a deranged serial killer on their hands. The FBI will be called in and things could get rather ugly. You could encounter checkpoints, for example, where you’ll have to produce ID. Then, there are those pesky undercover agents wearing wires. Even if you escape the authorities, your family could be brought in as accessories.”

Cynthia had to confess that she hadn’t thought about the consequences of an unlife of crime.

Dylan left around 4 AM, after a final check on Christophe. It was too late to go to the observatory, so she decided to turn in early. Cynthia headed for her new room. The screens had been a nice try on Grandma’s part, but light still came around the corners–brilliant and terrifying. Nightmarish memories kept waking her up–the sounds of fighting, rushing upstairs, the painful light piercing her, Penelope outside, burning. After enduring a week of sleepless days, she’d purchased a smaller bed and moved into the storage space next to the garage, the only room in the house without windows. Cynthia entered it now and locked the door behind her. Squatting down, she forced a fabric roll tautly into the gap between it and the floor. Off went the lights, and she crawled into bed, surrounded by comforting darkness.

After Merrimon explained that he and Buford were looking for a lost soul and needed someone streetwise to help them, Reverend Chenault ordered his own nephew to act as their guide. The nephew’s given name was Donnatae Wilson, but a fondness for his father’s pager earned him a new (and more easily spelled) sobriquet, 2-Way, at age four.

2-Way’s father and his father’s brother were private truckers, and 2-Way lived in the suburbs of Torrance until he was twelve. That was when the tragedy happened. His father’s truck got trapped in a bad area of Los Angeles when it started raining and the standard wrecks ensued. Gang members shot his father and jacked his load.

Neither 2-Way nor his mother received any insurance money. 2-Way’s uncle had allowed the death and disability policies to lapse while the family business paid back taxes. He had been using accounting methods the IRS was kind enough to merely label ‘creative’ instead of ‘criminal’.

Left with nothing, 2-Way and his mother moved in with her parents in Whittier. She returned to full-time work, leaving 2-Way with his grandmother most evenings. He found the shock bewildering. The protection the suburbs subtly provided was gone, and he had to fend for himself with inner-city kids. Unfamiliar with poverty and survival skills, he was easy to push around and threaten. He was forced to learn street smarts from the ground up.

2-Way chose his new friends for toughness rather than their moral character, because it made the other kids stop messing with him. He joined in with their games and their recreations. He dressed like them and aped their behaviors. The lambs’ den of his childhood was over. It was time to run with the wolves. He would become a real homie, a gangsta.

His philosophical adjustment had consequences. By the time 2-Way reached sixteen, he had been in juvenile hall several times. He wore pants that threatened to slide off his skinny hips, and his best friend, Masta Nasty, shaved the word ‘PIMP’ into the back of his head for Easter. Worse, he was developing a serious drug habit. A child psychologist would have said that he had chosen to identify with the aggressor. Reverend Chenault said his nephew had ‘fallen in with a bad crowd’.

Reverend Chenault took 2-Way in and put him to work for the church, running errands and doing other odd jobs. He also took him on visitations, especially ones where a family was suffering a personal tragedy due to gang violence. 2-Way had to be shown that there was an abyss between his idealized image of the ‘gangsta’ life and its true consequences. He also needed to be weaned from the crack pipe, which Chenault enforced through lectures and surprise inspections of 2-Way’s room.

Showing godly men like Merrimon around would keep 2-Way busy and away from his old haunts. Neither Merrimon nor Buford had imparted the name of the missing person, but Chenault was sure it was Merrimon’s daughter. He began to speak of his daughter Roberta during a shared anecdote, then cut off the story abruptly. Perhaps she, too, had fallen in with the wrong people. By joining in the search, 2-Way might find his own soul.

Chenault also liked Buford, who was not much older than 2-Way and possessed of a good-hearted, if naïve, nature. If the young men became friends, it would further wean him from his former life.

Cynthia felt fairly good when she arose. It was the first time in a long while that she hadn’t awoken with a terrible hunger eating her ribs from the inside. After dressing, she wandered into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of orange juice. Night had fallen, but for her, it was breakfast time.

“Did you hear about the night man, McCann?” Grandma was loading the dishwasher. “They fired him this morning at the end of his shift.”

“Really? What happened?”

Grandma straightened to gather more dirty dishes. “Herman says that we had a stranger in our neighborhood last night, someone on a motorcycle. The noise woke up Heather, and she called the guard station to find out who the stranger was and whom they were visiting. She got no answer, it seems.”

Acid burned the back of Cynthia’s throat. It could have just been the juice, but she didn’t think so. Gastric reflux wasn’t a problem for dead people. There was only one person she knew that had come speeding in to Slippery Elm on a motorcycle last night: Dylan. “Was the guard all right?” Stupid, stupid question. If he hadn’t been okay, they wouldn’t have fired him.

“Heather drove to the gate and found him asleep at his post. She wanted to fire him on the spot, Herman says, but she went and got her digital camera instead. She took a picture of him passed out in his chair and then went looking for the ‘biker’, as Herman put it.”

“Did she–did she find him? Or her?”

Grandma put one hand on her hip and raised an eyebrow. “Him, I would say. I looked out the window at one point last night, and there was an unexplained two-wheeled vehicle in our driveway. The Ducati Josie was raving over, I suspect.”

“Oh, that was just Dylan. He dropped by last night. We, um, invited him over.”

“And he was here until two in the morning?”

“A bit later than that, actually. It was urgent.”

“Mmm.” Grandma tapped one of her loafers on the linoleum. “Next time, I suggest that he arrive in something quieter. A cloud of fog, perhaps?”

So she had guessed Dylan’s nature. “I’ll tell him. I don’t know if we do that fog thing or if that’s just in the movies.”

“Then tell him to buzz us at the gate like a regular person. There’s no reason that poor man should have been fired.”

Cynthia didn’t want to explain how big an emergency it had been. There was no reason to frighten her grandmother. “He may have worried that it would wake you.”

“Better me than Heather. I’ve been expecting some sort of call or citation all day. She may view the sleeping guard as the most serious problem, but she’s not going to forget whose house the motorcycle was parked in front of.”

Monday passed without incident. Tuesday, she was awakened by her cell phone.

“Hello, this is your Uncle Nelly.” Dylan sounded more cheerful than anyone had a right to at the crack of sunset. “I’m calling to remind you to eat tonight.”

Cynthia held the cell away from her head, muttering something foul she’d learned at The American School In Switzerland, then brought it back to her ear. “I have work at the observatory. If you were a good uncle, you’d deliver.”

“Nonsense. How would you learn to feed yourself if I did that? And no, I will not go back to the stinking hole I came from.”

“I didn’t say ‘stinking’.”

“I was being nice.”

When Cynthia entered the kitchen, she found her grandmother pacing. “I’m going to hang that child up by her ankles when she comes home.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I came back from shopping a few minutes ago and discovered that Josie’s car was gone, along with Josie, of course. She knows she’s not supposed to drive without a licensed driver.”

Cynthia shrugged. “It wouldn’t be the first time. Where do you think she went?”

“Her pool bag is gone, so I assume she’s swimming.”

“I could drive over to the pool and check.”

“I think it’s still a little early for that. She probably knows she’s going to face the music when she gets home.”

Cynthia suppressed a snort. “She won’t make the same mistake twice.”

“Unless…” Grandma’s brow wrinkled. “Do you think she might have run away again? She took the DeSoto. Her swimming bag could just as easily hold clothes.”

“Why would she run away? I think we’ve been pretty good to her.”

“I agree, but it’s not all about us. Josie is having problems fitting in at school. She claims that half the students are snooty nerds and the other half are Asians only interested in being friends with other Asians. I think her Southern accent is also making her a standout. Teenagers hate being different.”

Why hadn’t Josie spoken to her about her problems fitting in at school? Did she not trust her? “I didn’t know.”

“I should have told you, dear. Should we call the police?”

Cynthia felt a knot in her chest form at the thought. “No, but perhaps we should go look for her.”

Just then, the phone chirped. “Thank goodness,” Grandma said when she heard the voice on the other end of the line. “It’s her. Where are you, dear? Why are you still there?” Grandma sighed and smiled, briefly mouthing “the guardhouse” to Cynthia. The smile vanished. “Towed? What do you mean, towed? Why would they tow your car? Didn’t you park it in the lot?”

She listened for a moment more and her face grew grim. “We’ll be right there. You stay put.” Her lips pursed as she snapped the phone shut. “That… that shrew! She had Josie’s car towed.”

“Heather?”

“Do you know another shrew?” Grandma jerked her keychain off the hook in the kitchen. “Mr. Riggs told Josie that there’d been a complaint call about an old junker. Who else would be so spiteful?”

“Riggs, the security man? Did Josie call the police, too?”

“No, the girl didn’t have change, and the clubhouse was locked up. She walked to the guardhouse and found out what happened. She used his phone to call me. We’re going to have to get her a cell phone.”

“It sounds like we’ll have to,” Cynthia agreed. The old woman was out the door and scurrying to her car, and Cynthia was hard pressed to keep up. “You know that we can’t prove who made the complaint.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Grandma jammed the key into the ignition. Cynthia barely had the time to grab her seatbelt before they began backing down the driveway. “We know who did it, and she knows that we know. This is payback for your visitor the other night.”

“Maybe you should calm down,” Cynthia said as they screeched around the corner, ignoring the stop sign. “We should plan our next step.”

“I have a plan,” Grandma spat. “The monthly homeowners’ meeting is tomorrow. I plan to attend.”

2-Way thought the Reverend W. Robert Merrimon was confusing. The teenage boy had expected to withstand more lectures on turning away from the evils of drugs and gangs, now a daily part of his life. Instead, the crazy cracker was interested in 2-Way’s gang contacts. Indeed, he seemed eager to learn about them, and possibly meet them. It was a huge relief to talk to a man of God who wasn’t judgmental. Merrimon seemed especially interested in learning if any of 2-Way’s friends sold guns.

“What do you need guns for? Who is this lost soul?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Merrimon said, and then proceeded to tell him.

2-Way concluded that the cracker was crazy for sure, but Buford, whom 2-Way considered dumb but down-to-Earth, just sat beside him and nodded. What did they teach in those country churches, anyway? He knew he should tell his uncle how whacked Merrimon was, but the idea of getting to see his friends, especially Masta Nasty, was too tempting.

The house was empty when Cynthia arose the next evening. A note pinned to the refrigerator informed her that her family had already left for the meeting, and to come join them as soon as possible. A pang of regret tightened her throat. There was so much she was missing out on, and she felt left behind. Grandma was the titular homeowner, but Cynthia felt a certain responsibility–okay, it was her entire responsibility–for their moving to Irvine. She was responsible for Josie’s presence in the household as well, although it was better than the fate the girl had been facing when they met.

The DeSoto, however, was Dylan’s fault. Wholly and entirely his fault. That, at least, gave her a little satisfaction.

She was on her way out when her cell trilled. Maybe it was Grandma checking to see if she was awake. “Hello?”

Cynthia was greeted instead by a male voice. “Hello, this is your fairy godfather calling, reminding you to eat.” Crap! Was he going to do this every night?

“Um, thanks, Dylan.” She got into the Range Rover and began backing it down the driveway.

“Have you chosen a good dining spot yet?”

“No. Can we do this later? I’m on my way to a Neighborhood Association meeting.”

“Mmmm. A desperate housewife might do in a pinch.”

“I’m more likely to strangle one at the moment. I need to go, I’m sorry.” She closed the phone and nosed the vehicle out of the cul-de-sac.

When she slipped into the clubhouse five minutes later, the meeting room was about half full. Most of the attendees were middle-aged women, although Herman, in another cloud of cologne, was present. Another man, on the podium, was actually doing office work on a laptop. She spotted Josie’s head of curly dark hair near the front and wove her way between the chairs. They’d saved her a seat. Grandma turned and smiled briefly, then refocused on the lectern.

Heather Bishop, president of the Homeowners’ Association, was presiding over the meeting. She was wearing an elegant silk suit in a shade of gold that flattered her coloring. Most of the people in the room were fanning themselves with their agendas, but Heather seemed impervious to the heat.

Seated behind her were two men and a woman. One was the laptop worker, whose balding head and lined face reminded her of a toad, while the other man was burly and dressed in a green polo and Chinos. He was also much better looking; bronzed hair rippled back from a block-cut face. He was probably a few years older than Cynthia, and looked as if he’d be more comfortable on a practice field than stuck in a business meeting. His eyes stared outwards at nothing in particular.

The woman wore a violet-jacketed dress and was a bit on the plump side. Her hair, loose and long, was bright blonde. Her hands played with the folder in her lap as she watched Heather.

At the moment, Heather Bishop was detailing coming repairs to the sprinkler lines along some of the embankments near the golf course. The grass there was overly dry and constituted a fire hazard.

“Another concern that needs to be addressed,” Heather continued, shuffling her papers in a way that reminded Cynthia of her most officious English professor, “is the large number of yard sales on Live Oak Road the past few weeks.”

“We cut down,” a stout woman in her forties said.

“Joni, you cut down for one weekend, max. You can’t say that it’s because school was starting this time. You’re defacing our streetlights with your signs.”

“It’s the end of summer,” Joni said. “People are just trying to clear things out before school starts.”

Heather heaved an affected sigh. “Joni, it’s not a matter of one person, or one yard sale. Your street is beginning to look like a weekend flea market. Worse, we have people circling around the subdivision in their beat up cars, looking to see which house has the sale this time. It’s causing a traffic hazard. If something’s worn out, just pitch it.”

“It’s the principle of the thing. Why throw things away when someone else could use them?” Joni asked.

“Maybe you should be giving those items to charity. There are plenty of less fortunate people who’ve never had a pair of used Pradas.”

“How much of a tax writeoff would it be? My wife’s got shoes spilling out of our closet,” a man in the back queried, followed by laughs.

“I doubt it’d be market value, but I’m sure the bag ladies would look more fashionable,” Heather said snidely, drawing a line through something on her papers. “If a person has too many yard sales, the city can rightly accuse them of running a commercial business out of their home. We don’t want to make Slippery Elm that sort of place to watch. You’ve each had at least two sales. It’s time to find other ways to make room.”

“On to other business.” She glanced to the man in the polo shirt, who was rising.

The new speaker came to stand beside Heather, planting his hands on his hips. “Hello, neighbors,” he half-sang in radio announcer tones. “As you know, the Slippery Eels are getting ready to begin another season. And as always, we need your support for the kids.”

“The… what?” Cynthia asked aloud, startled.

The bronzed man turned her way. “Our water polo team. I don’t remember seeing you before; are you new?”

“This is my granddaughter, Cynthia,” Grandma introduced. “Cynthia, this is Gerald.”

“Good to meet you at last. I’m more familiar with your young cousin. Strong swimmer. She’d make a great Slippery Eel with a little training.”

“I’d die,” Josie whispered to Grandma. Her voice was low, but well within range of Cynthia’s sharp ears. “An ‘Eel’? Eeww.”

Mr. Sports Announcer continued. “Water polo is a wonderful activity for our youth. It gets the kids out of the house, gets them moving.”

“So does shoplifting,” Josie added.

Christophe, on her other side, muffled a snicker. “The team name does sound vaguely criminal.”

Heather interjected her own comments. “My son, Jason, is a member of the team. I’m proud to say that he’s captain this year.”

“And a good captain he’ll be, Mrs. Bishop. We need your help with funding the team, folks. The Eels compete with the other teams across the city, and we need equipment, bottled water for the kids, coolers. Can I count on you to make some donations?”

People began digging through purses and reaching into pockets.

Josie stuck up her hand.

“Josie Chambers,” Heather eyed her with distrust. “You have a contribution to the discussion?”

“Yeah. Back home–in Texas–churches and such sometimes had, like, one really big yard sale to raise money.”

“You must not have been listening,” Heather snapped. “We’ve had too many lawn sales already. That’s the problem.”

“Yeah, but why don’t you announce it as the Last Yard Sale of the Year, make it sort of a fundraiser for the water polo team? All the money would go to the team, and you could give the leftover items to charity. That way, everyone’s stuff would be gone for good.”

“I like it,” Gerald applauded. “We could have it at the clubhouse.”

Heather stared at him, outraged. “Impossible!”

“That’s a great idea!” Joni said, standing up again. “If people have one place to go, they won’t be causing a traffic hazard. Everyone in the neighborhood knows where the clubhouse is, and it’s right next to the gate for visitors.”

“Visitors are the problem!” Heather’s protest was half-drowned by the comments among the audience. “The gates are getting opened too often as it is.”

“We should keep the gates open all day for a sale like this,” Gerald said. “Let the public help out the team. It’d bring in extra money and show how neighborly we are. C’mon, Heather, I’m sure Jason would appreciate it.”

Faced with the growing buzz of assent from the homeowners, Heather finally grumbled agreement.

Once the business portion of the meeting was over, the floor was opened to homeowners with concerns for the board.

The first person to speak was Mr. Button from Sassafras Circle. He’d been cited for installing an inappropriate fountain ornament. The ornament in question was a figure of Queen Elizabeth tilting a teapot. The complaints were not about the design of the fountain, but the streams of water that poured out of the Queen’s nose instead of the pot. Mr. Button was not mechanically inclined.

“I’ll read the directions again and see if I can get it to work correctly. The kids have begged me not to,” Mr. Button said. “They think it’s hilarious.”

“They’ll get over it.” Heather promised. “This is a matter of preserving the decorum of the neighborhood. Next concern?”

Josie stuck up her hand.

“Any homeowners with concerns for the board?”

Grandma raised one slender arm.

“Yes, Mrs. Chambers?”

“Professor Chambers,” Cynthia hissed, loud enough to make the people on the front row turn around.

Grandma made a shushing gesture. “My granddaughter’s car was towed from the pool area last week.”

Heather’s reply was temporarily drowned by murmurs from the small assembly. “Towed?” “Was the car new?” “Do we need parking passes?”

“Quiet, people, quiet. I’ve been apprised of the unfortunate incident in question. I apologize, Mrs. Chambers. Sometimes other people, non-Elmers, sneak past the gates when Craig is on patrol. There are also–” she glanced in Joni’s direction “–the lawn sale invitees that get buzzed in from time to time. A resident probably assumed young Josie’s car belonged to an interloper, someone from outside, who had decided to enjoy our swimming pool while they were in the neighborhood.”

Cynthia was still trying to restart her brain after the ‘Elmers’ reference when Josie spoke.

“Bullshit,” Josie cried. “Everyone at the pool knew it was my car. I showed it off when I pulled into the lot. Someone here just wanted me towed, and I know who.”

“Whom,” Grandma corrected. “Please sit, Josie. This is not a cussing occasion.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Chambers,” Heather’s cold gaze belied her affected warm voice. “Not everything is a conspiracy, my dear. The call could have come from a person returning from work or going out to dinner, anyone who went by the clubhouse.”

“What do you suggest as a remedy?” Grandma asked. “It sounds to me like you want Josie to go door-to-door to introduce herself and her vehicle.”

“Oh, not at all. But you must admit,” Heather said with a smile that was half-smirk, “that your granddaughter’s ‘classic’ car could be mistaken for an old beater from a distance. It’s not the sort of car we drive here.”

Ah, the royal ‘we’. Cynthia was getting sick of hearing about the standards ‘everyone’ else seemed to have. California’s ‘do your own thing’ reputation seemed undeserved. Cynthia stood up and looked for a gap between the chairs, but Grandma was already speaking.

“I don’t recall seeing any limitations on the age or model of car one can own in the covenant, Mrs. Bishop. And, believe me, I’ve had cause to read the regulations very carefully during the last month or so. Josie’s car is licensed, operable, and stays in our garage at night. Therefore, to prevent confusion in the future, I request that Security be notified that this De Soto belongs to a homeowner. I also request that, should there be another complaint call, that Security take down the caller’s information so Josie and I can introduce ourselves to him or her.”

Cynthia sat again amid muffled ‘oohs’ from the crowd. She should have known that Grandma could handle herself. If only she had inherited the same talent for dealing with University bureaucracy!

“That… sounds reasonable,” Heather said. What else could she say?

“That was great,” Josie said on the drive home. “She’ll never tow my car again.”

“She’s not going to have the opportunity any time soon,” Grandma said. “You know that driving the car by yourself was illegal. I’m confiscating your keys for the next two weeks and locking that garage door.”

The teen thumped her armrest. “Crap. I thought you’d forgotten.”

“I never forget. We’re just fortunate Mrs. Bishop didn’t know that salient fact, or I’m sure she would have worked that in for extra justification of her actions.”

“Two weeks?”

“You’ll live. You have Driver’s Ed to tide you over.”

When Cynthia drove onto the campus the following evening, she noticed more activity than usual on the crosswalks and around the dorms. Signs with directions to the Middle Earth dorm and arrows to designated parking areas had magically appeared overnight. The students were coming back. She pulled into the parking lot across from Reines and simply stared at the building.

For her, the countdown was starting. A week from today, seven short nights, she would be teaching her first class at UCI. What would her students think when they saw their syllabi and discovered the unorthodox teaching plan she’d designed? How would she manage office hours between now and the end of Daylight Savings Time?

Her phone chirped, disturbing her reverie.

“Hello, Dylan.” She opened the door with her free hand and slid out of the car.

“This is your nelly godfather calling, reminding you to–”

She growled and snatched her briefcase out of the car, slamming the door shut with one foot. “Is this absolutely necessary?”

“Someone told me they forget to eat sometimes. A good breakfast is the most important meal of the night, you know.”

“I’ll remember, I promise. Now stop calling!” Cynthia snapped the phone shut and shoved it back in her pocket. Anger hastened her pace down the walkway. Didn’t she have enough problems on her plate without being harassed by her brother’s boyfriend? True, he was a vampire too, and probably knew what he was talking about, but really–

Blam! Brat-at-at! Something hard slammed into her back, knocking her forward onto the pavement. Her briefcase went flying.

A moment later, someone was on top of her, grabbing her arms, grabbing her legs. She struggled against the hands holding her limbs. Too many hands to be just one person, unless it was Shiva or one of the other Hindu gods. She caught a glimpse of one black arm with tattoos. Was she being mugged?

“Let go of me!” She kicked hard, and one leg broke free. Her respite was brief; one of her assailants climbed on her back.

“Get off of her, Bu! You’re in the way!” the now ex-Reverend W. Robert Merrimon bellowed.

“Damn you!” she shrieked. Rage made her strong, and she threw off Buford, scrambling to her feet. Yes, it was the Reverend, his nephew, and a young black man she’d never seen before. The Reverend was standing behind the newcomer, holding that stupid stake.

The black man stared. “Shit! I thought you two was full of it, but–damn! The bullets went through her and everything!”

Cynthia looked down. There were bullet holes–actually, exit wounds–all the way down the front of her blouse. They hadn’t hit her, they’d shot her.

“You–you–bastards!” she shrieked. “This is a new shirt! And my blazer–”

“Uh, don’t look,” the newcomer said.

A scream came up out of her core and burst forth as a roar. It echoed against the concrete building surrounding them and ended in a long hiss. Her lips curled back and her fangs extended.

“Holy sh–” The three men scattered in separate directions.

Cynthia hesitated. Whom should she chase? The Reverend? His idiot of a nephew? Or the new man they’d brought with them? Someone was going to die for this! A loud electronic pulse, followed by others, snapped her back to sanity.

The gun. Someone must have heard the gun and pulled a fire alarm. They were probably calling the police, too. She couldn’t let anyone see her like this. Her notes! Where was her briefcase? Ah, there, in the bushes. She snatched it up and dashed off for the parking lot.

Once she was safely in her car and off campus, her fear turned to chuckles. What a roar! She didn’t know she had it in her, but wow! Based on the looks on those men’s faces, at least one set of pants needed changing.

She awoke healed of her wounds the next evening, but also ravenous. The piercing, cramping pain increased when she rose. Blood. She needed to feed.

Clothes. She needed clothes to go out, and she needed to find someone to feed from. Her ruined blouse and blazer were piled in the corner. She’d toss them in the garbage on her way out. Meantime, she needed an outfit for attracting prey. Cynthia stalked into her closet and jerked clothes hangers left and right till she found what she was looking for: the outfit Penelope had loved. Black denim jeans and a sea green tank top with just a little sparkle. She’d always said it brought out the red in Cynthia’s hair.

The bars were full of students celebrating their last free weekend before the fall semester began in earnest. Cynthia wandered through them, one after another, till she found a small place almost entirely populated with women, which was a promising sign. She moved through the crowd, looking for someone that seemed approachable. She felt a tap on her shoulder and turned. Behind her was a slender Asian girl wearing a purple tube top and oversized bell-bottoms.

“Hello. Do I know you?”

“I don’t think so, but we could fix that. My name’s Imogene,” the girl said, accent pure Californian. “What’s your name?”

“Cynthia.”

The girl nodded. She looked to be in her early twenties. “Are you new here?”

“Yes, I only moved to Irvine a few weeks ago.”

“Happy to meet you. Would you like to dance?”

“Love to!” Cynthia wasn’t a skilled dancer, but Imogene was the first person to show an interest in her, rather than the other way around.

The music was loud and thumping, but Cynthia’s ears seemed extra sharp tonight. Under the drums and the bass, she could hear Imogene’s heart beating, the blood rushing through her veins. When the song ended, Cynthia offered to buy her a drink. They exchanged pleasantries about the city, the University, but the words were empty to Cynthia and forgotten nearly as quickly as they were said. The pulse of the young woman was drawing, fascinating, hypnotic.

The bathroom for the small establishment was one-person, and there was a line. When their turn came, they went in together. Cynthia took Imogene’s shoulders and shoved her back against the door.

“Whoa!” Imogene gasped, right before Cynthia moved in and sunk her teeth into the soft pale juncture of shoulder and neck.

The young woman struggled briefly, then gasped. “Ohhh. Ohhh.”

Not too fast. Cynthia told herself. Not too fast, not too much. She had to control it this time, not like the time at the library, not like the time with Josie. She was so hungry, and it was so good, so very good. The warmth spread inside her, taking away the pain, the cold.

She was jarred out of the trance by a pounding on the other side of the door. “Hey, get a room somewhere if you’re gonna have sex! I gotta pee!”

Cynthia pulled back and licked her lips. Imogene’s eyes were half-open and glassy.

“You okay?”

The Asian woman nodded. “Yeah. I… wow.”

“I’ve been waiting to do that for the last hour.”

She smiled weakly. “What took you so long?”

It was four A.M. in the morning when Cynthia returned home. She deactivated the alarm long enough to get inside and left her shoes at the door. There was no point in waking up the household. She crept up the stairs and headed for the bathroom. A shower would be a good idea. Imogene smoked, which wasn’t as much a problem for Cynthia as it used to be. There were no allergies or cancer after death.

At least she hadn’t lost control this time. The memory from the library still rippled wavelets of guilt somewhere in the back of her head. She wasn’t sure what would have happened if there hadn’t been someone outside banging on the door. How was she going to straighten out her life if she couldn’t trust herself?

Soft footsteps fell behind her. She recognized the tread and turned. “Good morning, Josie. Aren’t you up a little early?”

Josie was wearing one of Christophe’s shirts. Or, at least Cynthia couldn’t imagine her father owning a tee with Tom of Finland on it. She really couldn’t picture Christophe owning it, either. Probably an ironic gift from Dylan. “Aren’t you in a little late? You didn’t even leave a note for us.”

Cynthia frowned. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I was off getting something to eat.”

“We have food here. Oh, wait, you mean–”

“Yes. You should be grateful.”

“Hey, I’m family now. Although, if you were desperate, I would let you have some again.”

“Getting desperate is how I nearly killed you.” Never mind nearly killing Christophe, too. Josie didn’t need to know about that.

“Speaking of killing, Grandma is really mad at you. She went to take out the garbage and found your clothes in it. They looked pretty bad.”

“Darn it! I was hoping I’d buried those down far enough.”

“Hey, it even made her forget what I did. What happened to you?”

“It’s too late to explain and I’m not sane right now. Go back to bed and we’ll talk about it in the morning. Um, evening.”

The former Reverend Merrimon wished that Chenault’s nephew would shut up about the vampire. He hadn’t believed in them either till he confronted one, but even Buford had more sense than to rant about vampires where other people could hear you. He looked a little wild around the eyes, too. Maybe 2-Way needed to go back to his drug habit till this was over; at least it might calm him down.

“You calling the preacher? ‘Cos we need some crosses. And some holy water. Gotta go to a Catholic church for holy water.”

Merrimon slammed down the phone. “Bu!”

“Yeah?” Buford wandered out of the bathroom, pulling up short when the cord to the blow dryer reached maximum stretch.

“Take 2-Way out.”

“Out where?”

“Anywhere. Hey, take him to get some holy water.” A memory from a film he had seen in his shameful sinning days gave Merrimon an idea.

“I can’t go yet. My hair ain’t dry. Mama said I shouldn’t go outside with wet hair. I could catch a cold.”

“It’s ninety outside. You’re not gonna catch a cold. Let the sun and heat dry it. Don’t run the air conditioning and you’ll be fine.”

“Where will we find holy water?”

“Catholic church,” 2-Way said.

“I don’t know any churches around here.”

Merrimon growled and chucked the phonebook at them. “Then make that part of your mission. Just get out, both of you! I know what to do now. I need to plan how to do it.”

After they got in their new car from King’s E-Z Wheels, a 2005 Ford Focus, the Reverend’s assistants realized they didn’t have anything to put the holy water in. They stopped by a Wal-Mart and picked up a couple of plastic Pink Princess camping jugs, on sale for one dollar each. The vampire hunters in the movies had bigger budgets than they did.

Afterwards, they went through the phonebook until they found a couple of prospects. A wedding was going on at the first church, making it far too public for their secret mission. After all, some people might view what they planned as theft, not recognizing that they were only taking what they needed to fight evil.

Their luck improved at the second church, La Iglesia De La Immaculada. Only a couple of cars were parked in the lot and the front doors were unlocked. They slipped in as quietly as they could and crept into the entrance to the sanctuary. Their luck held; it was empty. A vacuum cleaner roared from somewhere else in the building.

The baptismal font was located near the entrance. Buford studied it curiously. He’d never seen anything like it before. It was made of marble, and carvings depicted holy men on the sides and a woman he assumed was the Virgin Mary. He knew she was big with Catholics. Only one thing bothered him.

“That’s an awfully small tub,” he whispered to his companion. “They must put the tiny babies in there. Like the preemies. Do they dunk the adults in the main sanctuary?”

2-Way snorted. “Some people don’t dunk, country boy, they sprinkle.” He wiggled his fingers.

“But how do they get all the sin off?”

“They cross themselves with it every time they go to Mass. Dunking doesn’t keep people from doing new sins, anyway.”

The religious education over, the two approached the basin and opened the jugs. The first one was easy to fill, since they had a second one to scoop and pour with.

2-Way screwed the cap on and set it aside. He scooped up as much water as he could with the second jug, then handed it to Buford. “Hold this.” He cupped his dark hands and dipped them into the font, dumping the water by the palmful into the jug.

“Are you sure that’s not contaminating it?”

“I’m clean,” 2-Way said. “Besides, we’re using it for a holy purpose.”

“Hola,” said a voice from behind them. Buford shrieked and dropped the jug.

A young, clean-shaven man in dark clothing and a clerical collar bent and pressed a button on the font, concealed by the friezes. A burble of water started squirting up from the bottom. The priest took the dropped jug and held it to the low jet.

“You do not need to steal the holy water,” he said. “It is there for everyone.”

“Thank you, sir.” Buford was relieved.

“I am Father Dominic.” The priest eyed the two jugs. “You must be in great spiritual need to want so much holy water.”

“We’re fighting the forces of evil,” 2-Way answered. He started to elaborate, but Buford elbowed him in time.

“A noble quest,” Father Dominic said. “Would you like to tell me about your battle?”

“No,” Buford said quickly. “It’s sort of a family thing.”

“Ah. Well, if you would like to come by later and talk to me about the forces of evil, I will be more than happy to listen. However, Mrs. De Guzman needs to get in here to vacuum the carpets. So, if you wouldn’t mind…”

“Right,” 2-Way said. “We’ll be going now.”

“Thanks again, Father,” Buford said.

“Thank you,” the priest replied. He seemed amused as the two departed.

“You had two phone messages,” Grandma reported. “Both from an Imogene. But you’re not going to call her yet.”

“I’m not?”

“No. First, you’re going to explain these.” Cynthia’s grandmother dumped the paper bag’s contents out on the bed. “One bloody blouse, one perforated jacket.”

Josie had been right. “I hoped you wouldn’t find those.”

“Your hopes were in vain. I happened to see them when I was taking out the recyclables. You put them in the wrong bin.”

She’d been running on fumes for sure last night. “I didn’t mean to worry you.”

“What happened to them? And you?”

“Merrimon. He showed up with his nephew and some other guy. They shot me, but as you can see, I got better.”

The corner of the paper bag crumpled under Grandma’s whitening knuckles. “Merrimon? How did he find us again?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he has bloodhounds. Bloodhounds. Oh, I made a joke.”

“Not funny. What are you going to do about it?”

“I don’t know yet. I think we might want to start by making sure the house is secure. I think I should change my routine around too, try to throw them off.”

Herman came over again for dinner Sunday. He was, once again, fresh-washed, but bore no Doritos this time. He handed a pot of chrysanthemums to Josie, along with a small wrapped box. As she left the hallway, she glanced at Cynthia and pretended to shake the present near her ear.

Cynthia hoped her grandmother had missed the little exchange, especially the “Oh ho!” the teen had mouthed. At least the package was too big to be a ring box.

This time, the three younger family members had dressed more casually for the meal. Grandma, however, was still going for dressy in lavender silk. Cynthia volunteered to ladle out the soup so any splatters would go on clothes that could be machine-washed. As she circled to Herman’s left, she noted that he’d already inhaled the bread.

They ate in silence again. When Herman’s bowl was empty, he turned to Josie. “I saw you at the Button house this afternoon, rendering service to the Queen’s runny nose.”

“Yes, it was very nice of you to help them,” Grandma added, smiling at Josie.

The girl shrugged. “It only took about ten minutes. He just didn’t know how to hook up the fountain right.”

“Don’t belittle your talents, young lady.” He shifted his attention to Grandma. “Speaking of lawn beautification, Eleanor, how fares your quest for roses?”

Grandma frowned. “Turned down by the committee, with no good reason given. That hateful Mrs. Bishop!”

Herman’s overgrown eyebrows shot up. “Heather? Heather’s a nice lady.”

“Perhaps she’s nice to men,” Grandma said waspishly, “but she’s given me trouble since we’ve arrived. I think she likes denying people things because she enjoys the power.”

“I’m sorry I brought it up. I didn’t mean to upset you. Let’s change the subject. Why don’t you open your present now?”

Grandma smiled. “That’s very sweet of you, but I should probably wait till after dinner... Oh, never mind. Give it here.”

Christophe passed it to her, and she unwrapped the shiny silver paper. All eyes eagerly followed her fingers. She opened the box and lifted out the contents so everyone could see.

“How charming,” Grandma said. “A Hummel figurine.”

“An angel,” Herman said. “For another angel.”

Grandma glanced away and blushed prettily, missing Cynthia’s and Christophe’s wincing and Josie’s gagging gesture.

“It’s very sentimental of you.” Grandma set the angel near the chrysanthemums. “I remember you telling me how your wife loved them.”

“Yes, but I got this one just for you.” He folded his hands together and rested his chin on them. His eyes glowed like a dog waiting for his treat. Cynthia was embarrassed to be in the same room with him. Even Grandma looked a little uncomfortable.

After a strained pause, Josie piped up from across the table. “So when do you start school, Cynthia? To teach, I mean.”

“Yes,” Herman said. “Tell us about it. I miss the academic life.”

Cynthia was grateful for her deliverance from the awkward situation. “The twenty-third is the day I actually begin teaching. There’ll be some meetings with students before then, and I have to get my syllabus approved.”

“By the jerk?”

“By the department head, Josie.”

“The jerk.”

“Yes, the jerk.”

Herman laughed. “That was one of the aspects of academic life I don’t miss. That, and unappreciative students who don’t understand why they need to take history to get a degree. I always told them that they were at a university, not a vocational school.”

“So, if I go to vocational school, I don’t have to take history?”

“Josie!” Grandma and Cynthia chided simultaneously.

The following evening, Cynthia found herself facing a dilemma. Her first class started in only a few days. She needed to see her roster, to see if there were any questions or messages from prospective students, to see if the books she’d ordered were in the bookstores. But if she went to campus, Merrimon might be there. It would be counterintuitive of him to lurk in the same place as before, which was exactly why he’d be there.

Grandma watched her granddaughter from the couch. Her needlework was in her lap.

“Stop pacing; it’s making me tired just being around you. I called Security first thing today and told them you were being harassed by the parent of a student. I described Merrimon’s car and asked them to make some extra patrols by the house. We’ve done all we can about the Reverend for the moment.”

“I can’t help it. I wish I knew where he was, what he was planning.” Maybe then I’d be be able to sleep. When she closed her eyes in the morning, brilliant images of Merrimon smashing through their door danced under her eyelids like REM movements. Earlier that afternoon, she’d woken from a dream-memory of Pen’s body burning, dissolving under the sunlight. She’d lain awake for at least an hour, listening to a WWII narrative on the History Channel from the other room. Grandma’s TV watching had increased since the move.

“Worrying about it isn’t going to change a thing,” Grandma said. “Josie claims that the DeSoto is ready to ‘hit the main drag’. Why don’t you find out if the car is in good enough shape to leave Slippery Elm? I know she’d like to drive her own car, and I would prefer it as well.”

Cynthia was glad she was dead; any sudden paleness could be explained away. “Shouldn’t Christophe handle that? He’s the one who gave her Old Yeller.” The idea of riding with an inexperienced driver in a car older than the two of them combined was horrifying.

A voice bellowed from the library, “Hey! Christophe is the unlucky fellow who’s been risking his neck up till now. Besides, she would much rather ride with you than me.”

“Plans with Dylan tonight?” Cynthia retorted.

“Ad hominem attacks will get you nowhere.”

“Dear, you are her patron, in a way,” Grandma said. “Also, you’re more likely to live through any mess-up she or the car has.”

They roared down the driveway, narrowly missing Heather’s Saab, and shot out of the cul-de-sac. “Why are you grabbing the door handle like that?” Josie demanded, slowing just enough to make the turn at White Oak on all four wheels. “We’re not going that fast.”

“Yes, we are. Slow down!” The moon was waxing again. Surely Josie could see the freshly painted curbs and the stop sign… couldn’t she?

Josie eased up on the accelerator. “I’ve done this before. You don’t have to be scared.”

“I’m not scared.” Cynthia started to release the handle, then realized that her hand was shaking. Why hadn’t the old man installed seatbelts? “I’m scared for you, not me.”

“Uh-huh.” They made a slow but wide turn at Slippery Elm Drive, and then lurched forward as Josie hit the gas. “We’re surrounded by steel. What could happen?”

“It boggles the mind. Stay in your lane!”

“It doesn’t matter. No one else is out here.”

“You’re practicing for real traffic, remember? Here’s the clubhouse. Why don’t you turn around here and–never mind.” The entrance to the clubhouse lot was already behind them. Ahead loomed the exit gate to Vendover Road. “What are you doing?”

“Looking for some real traffic.”

“Wouldn’t we be better off making our first test runs around the neighborhood?”

“Not if you want me to learn something. I can drive around there just fine. Anyway, I thought I saw Bitch Bishop’s porch light come on when we drove by her house. She’d just sic Security on us if we stay here.”

“Good point. But you’re not getting on 73. And stop cussing!”

“Okay, okay.” They passed over the spikes designed to puncture the tires of cars trying to enter through the exit lane. “Here we go. Showtime!”

Don’t panic, Cynthia told herself as they entered the real world. Josie had brought back the Range Rover in one piece, hadn’t she?

Campus Security was making another sweep. Merrimon, sitting shotgun in the Focus, hissed “Get down!” and the three men slid down into the shadowed floors of their vehicle. It’d been hard enough to find an open space in a no-tow zone around Campus Village Housing without increased patrols to duck. It was probably due to the little shoot-out Thursday night, which just reminded the Reverend of their failure. It’d been a good idea, using the guns to knock her down till they could close in and use the stake, but then Chenault’s nephew had suffered a failure of nerve. He’d backed up, blocking Merrimon’s path to the vampire. That was why he hadn’t been able to get there before she rose. One had to move fast with vampires.

Certainly her hiss wouldn’t have been a factor in Merrimon’s hesitation. Why would that frighten him? He’d heard a vampire hiss before. He’d even destroyed one. Of course, that had been during the daytime, when the vampire was at a distinct disadvantage. Still–

“Tell me again why we’re here on Saturday night?” 2-Way asked.

“Because she’ll be looking for students to feed on.”

“I think we should be hitting the clubs, then.”

“You don’t know this vampire. She’d fit as well into a club as I would. No, she’ll be here looking for nerds.”

“Maybe we should split up. I could go check out the clubs, and you could keep watch here.” 2-Way sounded wistful.

“Nice try. Your uncle said the clubs were the start of your problems.”

“Leave my uncle out of this.”

“Son, he’s just concerned for your welfare. I think I should-”

A tap on the shoulder interrupted him. “Uncle Wilbur, I think that’s her car,” Buford whispered from the back.

“That’s wishful thinking. It doesn’t sound anything like her car. More like a coffee grinder on steroids.” Merrimon pulled up enough to see that the security truck was gone. The only vehicle moving was an old DeSoto, ancient enough to remind him of the one his grandpa had driven to church every Sunday. It was the same color, too–reminded him of the inside of a baby’s diaper. “Definitely not her car.”

“But she’s riding in it,” Buford said. “Look.”

Merrimon used his binoculars, but couldn’t see anything past the reflection of the streetlights on the Adventurer’s windshield. “Now I know you’re seeing things. What did you two do besides visiting la iglesia this afternoon?” Then the vehicle slowed down and turned away from the dorms, and he got a good look at the driver. It was the girl who’d been with the vampire at the rest stop. “My apologies, Bu. I should have known it was the GPS again.”

Josie snatched another handful of fries out of the bag. She’d pulled into the first McDonald’s she saw. “I’ve been dying for a Big Mac. Grandma is a nice woman, but she never stops here when we go out together. She has these notions about nutrition.”

“Put both hands back on the wheel. Yes, we were rarely allowed to stray from the straight and narrow, even with food. I remember it painfully.”

Josie smiled, surprised. “Painfully? You actually liked eating something that was bad for you?” She lifted the Coke balanced between her knees and took a sip.

“Oh, yes. My weakness was Blizzards. I’d never had one till we came back to the States to live with Grandma and Grandpa Chambers, but I tried one and I got hooked. I’m sure I’d be a fat woman today if Grandma hadn’t clamped down pretty hard. I only got them as treats.”

“Back to the States? Where were you before?”

“We were in private schools in Switzerland. Our parents were stationed in the Persian Gulf.”

“Were they killed?” The DeSoto began to drift into the wrong lane. “During one of the wars?”

Cynthia grabbed the wheel and jerked the car back into its proper lane. “Keep an eye on what you’re doing. Yes, Mother was killed there in an accident. Dad’s still alive, but he’s been stationed all over the world since. I haven’t seen him in several years.” Fear stabbed her stomach. “Oh, shit! He’s stationed in San Diego now. We’ll be having him over for the holidays!”

“Hey! You said no cussing!”

“This is a cussing occasion.”

Josie snickered. “Because he doesn’t know you’re a vampire?”

“That, too.” Wrong thing to say, Leach, she told herself. Now she’ll want details. Distract her, quickly. “Say, turn here, onto Bison. I’ll show you where I work.”

“Where you got shot? All right!”

They crossed SR 73 and passed through the southern entrance to the University. Cynthia berated herself for her stupidity; campus was the place she’d been avoiding. After a moment, she realized that it was a suggestion of unconscious genius; Old Yeller was the only car they had that the Reverend wouldn’t recognize. “This area on the left is Health Sciences. When you get to Peltason, turn right and slow down.”

Josie complied, and Cynthia continued. “They usually refer to this part as Ring Road. Coming up now is the Physical Sciences area. The building over there is Croul Hall, and the one over here is the lecture hall. If you pull up into the lot here, we might be able to spot Reines. That’s where my office is.”

“Can we go in and see?”

“Sure! We need to find a metered space, though. This is the sort of car the parking Gestapo would spot immediately.”

They circled the lot closest to the building, but didn’t find any open visitor parking. Josie turned back down Circle View towards Peltason, but the road was suddenly blocked by a small Ford. The teen hit the horn, which gronked loud enough to echo off the buildings.

A black man leaned out of the window and made an esoteric hand gesture at them. The hair on Cynthia’s arms stood up when she saw his face. It was the man who’d been with the Reverend and his nephew. “Josie, back up. We have to get out of here.”

The girl was busy making her own hand gesture at the man. “Same to you, buddy! Move it or lose it!”

The black man produced a pistol and fired. The right side of the windshield burst into the car, spitting glass across the dash, and Josie shrieked. She twisted the wheel in a hard left and hit the gas. They shot across the northern side of the parking lot and bore down on the Physical Sciences Classroom Building.

“We can’t get out this way!” Cynthia shouted. “Turn back!”

Josie glanced at the headlights filling her rear view mirror, mounted on the dash instead of the roof. “We can’t! They’re right behind us!”

Another bang, and wind whistled freely through the car. Josie floored the accelerator, and they barreled between the buildings, crossing the Inner Ring and entering Aldrich Park. Grass, dry and stiff despite repeated watering, crunched beneath their wheels. Trees rushed at them through the double headlights, and Cynthia briefly wondered if skiing at night would be like this. Branches thwacked the roof and snapped, spinning to the ground in the reddish glow of the taillights. Rabbits scattered in all directions. Josie veered from side to side dodging tree trunks, forcing Cynthia to clutch the door handle and the dash for dear unlife. Then, with a bump, they were on the pedestrian walkway.

“What are you doing?”

“Staying in my lane,” Josie whimpered.

The walkway forked ahead, and Cynthia pointed to the left. “Turn there. It’ll take us back out to the road. Watch that bush!”

The Focus, yawing to and fro on the uneven ground, pulled alongside. Buford leaned out the back window and pulled out a water Uzi. Cynthia stared, dumbfounded, as he took aim and fired. Liquid splattered on her shirt and skin, and she began to burn.

“It’s acid!” she screamed. “Watch out!”

“Acid? On my car? Assholes!” Josie jerked the wheel to the right and sideswiped the other car, bouncing it off the path and into the trees.

Cynthia ignored the crash behind them. The pain was getting more intense. She ripped off her shirt and began blotting the sizzling liquid off of her arms. “Forget them! I’m getting blisters! We need to find water!”

Josie pulled the supersized Coke from between her legs and dumped the contents all over Cynthia. The pain abruptly ended.

“Thanks… I think.”

Krieger and Humanities Halls loomed ahead of them. The DeSoto edged through the plaza between the buildings, and soon they were back on Peltason. From there, they zigzagged to Mesa and then University Drive.

Cynthia turned and watched the road behind them carefully. “I don’t see them.”

“I hope they rammed into one of those trees. Serve ‘em right.”

“The tree doesn’t deserve it. When we get home, we’re going to wash this car thoroughly.”

“Good idea. The pop’s going to be pretty hard to get out after it dries.”

“Not just the pop. There were a lot of rare plants in that park. We’re going to remove the evidence. I want you to check the car again tomorrow, during daylight, just in case we leave anything.”

“I was gonna do that anyway. I gotta see what the acid did to your side of the car.” Josie headed up the ramp to 73.

“You shouldn’t be driving on a road this fast yet,” Cynthia said automatically, then began to laugh. “I guess after that little ride, that some regular traffic would be a relief!”

The next evening, Cynthia checked the newspaper and the Internet for reports on their encounter with Merrimon the night before. The Orange County Register had a short blurb about some damage to a UCI park by unknown vehicles, but local TV news sites described the incident as severe damage inflicted to the park by a suspected drag race. She cringed when she saw the estimated cost of replacing the damaged plants. Many had been imported as seeds or cuttings from Europe. So far, the police had no suspects, but they had requested footage from security cameras in the area. Josie would need to paint the car. Then again, why bother? After all, how many cars in Irvine had tailfins? She fervently hoped that any pictures recovered were of the Focus, or that, if not, it would become clear she and Josie were being shot at when they made their little detour into the arboretum.

Grandma was in the living room, reading. Cynthia poked her head in and asked, “Where’s Josie?”

“Follow the extension cord,” Grandma replied, pointing towards a plug in the outlet by the front door. The orange cord ran outside. Cynthia followed it into the driveway, where she found a wet-dry vacuum and a bucket next to the DeSoto. Josie’s butt, outlined by the security light, stuck out of the passenger door.

Cynthia said hello, but the whine of the vac overrode her words. She swatted the butt. “Hey! How’s the car?”

Josie straightened and turned off the vacuum. She held a spotlight in her left hand “I got the leaves out of the undercarriage earlier today. I’ve checked the rest of her over and I think she’s going to be okay. The Coke made a mess, but I think I’ve gotten the worst of it outta the seat and floorboards.”

“That’s good.”

“The part that sucks is that replacement windows will need to be special-ordered. They don’t stock stuff for this car in regular places. Do you think Grandma will spring for that?”

“I think she will if we can afford it. She’s the one who suggested we go driving in the first place, and it’s not like we were the ones who shot it out.”

A voice interrupted them. “Hail, Josette!”

The two turned to see an evening jogger wave at them. They waved back and stayed quiet until he had turned the corner onto White Oak.

“What was that about?”

The girl shrugged. “I have no idea.”

“I hope he didn’t overhear us.” Cynthia knelt beside the chassis. “How did you get rid of the acid damage?”

The girl frowned. “I’m going to have to do a little body work on the passenger side, but there’s no sign of acid.”

“Maybe the car’s paint job was more resistant to the acid than my skin.”

“I don’t think so. Your shirt didn’t get damaged, either, except for where you tore it when you were pulling it off. Your bra wasn’t damaged at all.”

“You noticed my bra?”

Josie flushed. “I hosed you down after we got home last night, remember? Anyway, the bra didn’t look damaged to me.”

“That man squirted something caustic into the car.”

“Sure it wasn’t holy water?”

“Holy water? You’ve seen too many horror movies.”

“Maybe they have, too. It’d make sense, that’s all. I mean, wouldn’t a really strong acid have dissolved the plastic in the water Uzi?”

“Hmm. Is Christophe here?”

“Yes, he’s been working on the computer all afternoon.”

“Good. His friend has come to our home; it’s time I visited him at his.”

They rode in Christophe’s hybrid. The long trip down the San Joaquin Hills toll road plunged them into a long dark corridor, illuminated only by the lights of the cars ahead and behind them. After weeks under streetlamps, it was strange to see the stars again. The moon, not quite full, followed them west. Cynthia looked down the stretch of road, calculating distances. Dylan had made very good time coming to Irvine the night of the disaster. He must have tripped every speed trap on the highway.

Christophe took the ramp at Laguna Canyon Road and passed the entrance to the Laguna Coast Wilderness Park. They continued south and strands of malls, restaurants, and homes began appearing on the left, but the view to the right was free of buildings and almost entirely dark.

Cynthia stared out at the celestial expanse, letting it soothe her spirit. “I’m surprised to see this much open space so close to a beach. I figured it’d be nonstop tourist attractions at this point.”

“Oh! Well, once upon a time, the more environmentally oriented residents of Laguna Beach, sometimes called the “Lagunatics”, arranged for some of this land to be set aside as nature preserves. There even used to be all sorts of restrictions on what could be built in the city, too. Dylan says that the preservationist movement pretty much ended when they had all those mudslides back in the early Nineties. Most of the restrictions on construction were relaxed to make rebuilding easier. That’s when the resorts and the big houses took over. The majority of the current residents are mostly interested in their own conveniences and more housing.”

It sounded like Dylan had been here for quite a while. “I’d think he’d want more people around. More people to feed from.”

Christophe smiled wryly. “He says that’s what the tourists are for.”

Once they were near the beach, the green disappeared entirely, replaced by resorts, restaurants, and entertainment venues. Cynthia could see what Dylan meant about tourists. Even though it was Sunday night, the streets were packed. BMWs competed with Lexuses (Lexi? she wondered) for parking and young people, clad in pre-cut cut-off jeans, wandered the sidewalks.

When they neared the end of the buzzing string of bars and hotels, Christophe asked her to slow down. “That’s the Undertow, his bar. Right past it is the driveway. See the gate? The box is right over there.”

The gate opened to a beach house, a modest structure compared to the resorts and McMansions that dotted the hills beyond. Cynthia liked it immediately. It was older than its neighbors and had more character. It might even be one of the original Craftsman bungalows. Behind the house was a detached garage of similar age. As they passed it, their headlights illuminated a black BMW convertible shielded by a carport of more modern construction.

They pulled alongside the Z4 and parked. Cynthia commented, “I’m surprised he doesn’t keep that inside the garage.”

“He doesn’t have the room. He keeps the motorcycle and the Aston Martin in there.”

“I see.”

They stepped out of the hybrid and onto a sandy path lined on each side by raised troughs of pansies. Cynthia followed him around the house. To her eyes, the flowers were mounds of brilliant white and radioactive purple, creating a runway to the house. One of the side windows sported a small Day-Glo decal that announced the vigilance of a home security service. Maybe she should be looking into that for their own home.

As they came around to the front of the bungalow, the broadness of the Pacific welcomed them. The breeze from the ocean caressed her skin and curled small tendrils of hair around her face. They ended their walk by passing under a trellised archway of softly glowing roses near the front porch. Dylan, clad in an ice-blue shirt with white linen pants, emerged from the front doors as they mounted the stairs. “I’m glad you decided to visit. Is this your first trip to Laguna Beach?”

“Yes. It’s… overwhelming.”

“The place keeps me busy. Please, enter. May I offer you a drink? Wine cooler? Scotch?”

“Do you have any soft drinks?”

His brow furrowed. “I’ll check.”

The ceiling of the front side of the house was vaulted and the wall separating kitchen and living room had been removed, creating a large open great room with exposed beams. It was painted in cream and edged with teak timbering. A brick fireplace, currently unused, marked the halfway point in the length of the room. Tastefully framed black-and-white stills from the Golden Age of movies flanked the couch and cushioned seats.

Dylan rummaged in his refrigerator, more modern than the sink or its fixtures, and produced two of the small cans used for mixing drinks. “I have Coke and ginger ale. Would one of those do?”

“The ginger ale, thank you.”

“Coming up. Please, have a seat.”

She looked around at the furniture and selected one of the comfy chairs. “You have a lovely house.”

“Thank you.” He brought their drinks in on a tray–the ginger ale for Cynthia, a longneck for Christophe, and tonic water with lime for himself. “To what do I owe the honor of your visit? It sounded rather impromptu when your brother called.”

“As you’ve noticed, I’m having some problems adjusting to my new circumstances. Would you mind if I asked you a few more questions?”

“Not at all. If only we had a Chamber of Commerce to hand out maps of suitable lairs and a monthly schedule of sunrise and sunset times.”

“The latter, I can figure out on my own. The advantages of being an astronomer.”

The three drank in silence for several minutes, during which Cynthia stared at the stills without really seeing them. When she had the words formed in her mind, she turned to Christophe. “Would you mind leaving us for a bit? Some of this stuff is private.”

Christophe scowled, but finished his beer and stood up. “I’ll be out walking on the beach when you’re through.” He set the bottle in the recycle bin and left.

Dylan tilted his head in an attentive position. “Something private, eh? I should warn you, I never kiss and tell, even if he is your brother.”

“I want you to know that I have fed and might be feeding more regularly in the future. You don’t need to call me any more.”

“Congratulations! Who is she? How did you meet?”

Her face warmed. “We met in a bar. She seems interested in getting to know me better, so we’ll see how things work out.”

“A good beginning.”

“Yes. Some problems have come up, though… I don’t want to get into details, but I’m wondering how much real vampires are like the ones in the movies.”

“The world may never know. I tried, but I didn’t show up on film. It was rather detrimental to my budding career.”

“Didn’t show up on film? Why not?”

He arranged one of his arms across the back of the couch. “You’re the scientist. Perhaps you should investigate it.”

“Do you have the problem with all film?”

“Oh, I show up in digital pictures with no trouble. Some of the newer films seem to find me, too. I still remember my shock when I found myself in a photo spread of one of Rock Hudson’s parties. Newer technology, I suppose.”

Cynthia quickly connected this to her problems with mirrors. The old mirrors didn’t show her, but the newer ones did. Why? She’d have to look into it, but at another time. There were more relevant questions.

“Does holy water work?”

“Of course holy water works,” he said. “An unfortunate experiment on your part, perhaps?”

Christophe hadn’t told him about Merrimon. She still had some secrets from him. “No details, please.”

An amused light danced in his eyes. “I’m surprised you found any real holy water around here. The world’s grown very secular. Did you procure it from one of the Hispanic churches?”

“Does that make a difference?”

“Belief makes a difference. Otherwise, it’s just water with a few additives.”

“That doesn’t make any scientific sense.”

“My dear woman, we’re ambulatory dead. Let’s not get too picky about what’s scientific and what isn’t.”

“Ouch. Next question. Why does daylight hurt? It’s not religious or scientific.”

“In past centuries, daylight was reputed to have spiritual powers. Still does for some people. From our perspective, it doesn’t matter why it burns. Vampires simply do not go out during the daytime. It’s sort of like Groundhog Day–if we see our shadow, we have no spring.”

“But it doesn’t make sense. The stars are suns, too.”

“Maybe we don’t burst into flame because the old-timey vampires didn’t know any better. Or maybe the stars are too far away to matter.”

“What about the moon? It reflects sunlight back to the Earth, but moonlight doesn’t seem to hurt us.”

“Perhaps the moon doesn’t reflect the bad stuff.”

“It could be an intensity issue,” Cynthia mused. “Based on proximity or albedo.” This was interesting information. Why hadn’t she brought her PDA?

“There’s probably a good reason for it. But I’ll just sleep in, thank you very much.”

“I wonder how far away you would need to be from a star before daylight would be safe.”

Dylan sighed. “What’s the nearest star?”

“Alpha Centauri.”

“Then Alpha Centauri is far enough away to be safe, since vampires have been wandering around under the night sky for centuries. The sun is obviously too close.”

“Perhaps one of the outer planets would be safer. Imagine a colony of vampires on Europa or Titan. We don’t really need to breathe, and we could probably withstand harsh conditions better than normal astronauts.”

“It would last until someone got hungry and decided to feed on someone else. ‘Houston, we have a problem. Someone took all of Varney’s blood and didn’t leave any for me.’”

Cynthia galloped across the parking lot. It was seven thirty-five, making her five minutes late for her first class. If only Hargrave had agreed to the later time she’d proposed, she wouldn’t be late now. She wouldn’t have had to sleep in her car trunk, either. It was a full moon, making her extra visible to passersby. What if someone had seen her crawl out of the back of the vehicle? What if her pants were still wrinkled? No time to check again. She threw open the Classroom Building door and headed for the stairs–today, the elevator would take too long. A lone janitor emptying a trash dispenser glanced her way as she bounded upwards, then shook his head. He probably thought she was a student, not an instructor.

She slowed to a more sedate pace when she reached the third floor and smoothed her hair. There was only one classroom with an open door in the hallway, which told her where she was going. When she entered, she found a few tired-looking people slouched in chairs. Cynthia had known they would wait for her; they were graduate students. No ‘you can leave after ten minutes’ policy applied to them. “Good evening, class,” she said as cheerily as she could muster. At least vampires didn’t have to catch their breath. “I’m Cynthia Leach. Welcome to Computational Physics.” She wrote ‘Cynthia Leach’ on the blackboard while she gathered her thoughts. “We’re starting at a late hour for the time being, but we’ll move to a more sensible time in the coming months.”

“How soon?” a blond boy in the back asked. “I have an eight o’ clock discussion on Wednesdays.”

“Probably after daylight savings time ends.” That woke them up. “We’re going to be spending a lot of time at the observatory, and we really need to do that after night falls.”

“So, this isn’t going to be where the class is taught?”

“Sometimes, yes. But we’ll be doing some hands-on work, getting our own data instead of using someone else’s numbers. Later on, you’ll be using the computer lab to help you analyze the information and form it into coherent presentations.”

A Korean student raised his hand. “Oral or written?”

“Both.” She ignored the soft mutters that followed. “I will, of course, make allowances for background and training. Just remember that, sooner than you think, you will be using these skills to present your own research or to teach others.”

Cynthia passed out the syllabus to the small class.

“My email address and other contact information are at the top of the first page. Please note that my student conference hours start after my classes and take place over at the observatory. Directly below that is the contact information for my assistant, who is also my brother. You’ll see that he has daytime hours in my office at Reines Hall to handle your questions about programming and data manipulation.”

She waited while they studied the page before continuing. “Our class schedule–with locations–begins on Page 2. I’m sure you noticed when you signed up that we’re meeting twice a week instead of doing the marathon sessions you’re used to. I think you’ll find the information easier to absorb in smaller doses, and it will enable us to visit the observatory and the computer lab during the same week.” Since there was no response, she forged on. “Using computers to model and interpret astrophysical data is a special interest of mine. My brother is a programmer and designer. You’ll see that I have him scheduled to speak to us in the fourth week about approaching these issues from the computer perspective.”

Her words echoed in the mostly empty room. “Okay, it’s time someone else talked around here. Why don’t you tell me about yourselves–your name, your interests, and how much experience you’ve had with writing programs in the past?”

The Chinese student in the back raised his hand. “I’m Zhou Hao. I heard there were going to be simulations?”

“Yes! My brother and I are developing simulation programs as part of our grant. He’ll be demonstrating some of them when he comes. Is that a special interest of yours?”

The young man nodded.

The girl in the front piped up. “I’m Nenita. What if you have two left thumbs where the keyboard is concerned?”

“Learn to type with your toes?” A general laugh followed this, and the ice was broken. Maybe this was going to work after all.

Merrimon and Buford were still taking ibuprofen on Friday. Buford had a wrenched neck from the crash and both had bruises. That Focus had lousy brakes. The Better Business Bureau ought to come down on King’s E-Z Wheels. At least 2-Way had managed to avoid a head-on crash with the tree, and the car had been able to limp away from the scene before the police arrived. It’d made the news, though. They were going to have to swap the vehicle out for sure.

Time for a new tactic. Ambushing the vampire at night wasn’t working. They needed to get her during the daytime, like the other one. How could they find out where she slept? Merrimon had pondered this question since Wednesday evening, mostly spent at Chenault’s church to show their bona fide spirit of faith. Now, as he adjusted his icepack for the twentieth time, the idea hit him. He groped for the University phone book next to the bed. This hotel was going to stick him big-time for telephone charges when they checked out. It was eating up his savings, but it was the least he could do for Roberta. Guilt surged at the thought and strengthened his determination. Merrimon flipped to the office information he’d circled and punched in the main number. When the automated voice came on, he chose the options most likely to get a human being.

“Hello, Physics and Astronomy Department? To whom am I speaking?” He used his most genteel voice. “Well, I’m pleased to speak with you, Miss Mariah. I work for Tarheel Relocation and I have a delivery for Professor Cynthia Leach. Not there? That’s a shame. You see, the only address I have for her is a Reines Hall, and–yes, ma’am, that’s your office. I don’t think she’d want me delivering her bedroom suite there. Could you give me her address? She doesn’t appear to be in the phonebook. Oh, she lives with her grandmother? That would explain it. Do you have the grandmother’s name, then–you don’t? That’s a shame, it is. I don’t see how the professor is going to sleep right without this feather mattress I hauled across the country. Oh, you have her address there? Why, bless you. That’d be so nice.” He scribbled down the information with the hotel pen. “I am so grateful for your help, and I’m sure she is too. I thank you on her behalf. Bye-bye now, I got furniture to deliver.”

Merrimon smoothed the city map out on the bed again. Now, where was 2201 Forest Trail?

Friday night, Grandma waylaid Cynthia on her way out the door. “Your friend Imogene called. Or is she a friend? You’re ducking her like a bill collector.”

Icy contrition trickled inside her chest. Imogene probably thought the worst of her by now. “I’m sorry. Give me the number. I’ll call her.”

One phone call later, Cynthia headed for campus. The central office was quiet when she arrived. She checked in her box for messages and found a note from the chair, clipped to a lecture outline. Stefan Franck wasn’t going to be available to teach his Monday physics class; interim director Hargrave wanted her to cover it. She looked at the hour and winced. Nine in the morning–even in the dead of winter, the sun would be up by then. Could they fire her if she simply canceled the class? Maybe not, but it wouldn’t speak well of her attitude. She contemplated an alternate solution.

She slipped back out the doors and headed down the corridor to Eric Gleason’s office. The door was closed, but there was light shining from underneath. She tapped on it. “Are you in? It’s Cynthia.”

He opened the door and beckoned her inside. “I’m always in for you. What’s up?”

“Anton Hargrave wants me to teach Franck’s physics class on Monday. It’s at a very bad time for me.”

“You mean daytime?”

“Basically. I’m not worth much till the sun sets.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

She summoned up her courage for the humiliating request. “I was wondering if you would consider taking it. I would, of course, sub for you at some future date.”

He ran a hand over the red curlicues on his head. “Mmm. Which class is it? I teach two sections Monday.”

“Oh dear. Do you think one of the other profs would take it?”

“I doubt it. A lot of them have other projects they’re working on for the summer, or are even spending time with their families.”

“I can’t do this, Eric. I have other things I do during the day.”

Eric drummed on his desk. “I’ll consider doing it, but only if you cover my lab Tuesday night. And I’m only offering because it’s you.”

“Thank you so much!” She reached across the desk and clasped his arm. “I’ll leave a note on his secretary’s desk, let her know what we’ve arranged.”

“That’s not a good idea. Anton’s been involved in a pissing contest with the senior staff, trying to show everyone who’s boss.”

“Ugh. I hate politics.”

“Yeah, so do I. Tell him you’ll do it, then call in sick at the last moment. I’ll say you called me at home and I agreed to cover. He’ll think you’re trying to be conscientious. Make it convincing, or he’ll rake us both over the coals.”

Cynthia’s mind was pulling up her mental file of sunset times as she left Reines Hall. There was no way she’d be able to be there when Eric’s lab started, even if she slept in a body bag under one of the tables. Christophe would have to do it. He should be able to keep the class on track till she could get there. Meanwhile, she needed to focus on her upcoming reunion with Imogene. Prolonging a relationship based on hunger was unethical. Perhaps this time they could talk, get to know each other as people.

Imogene lived in one of the apartments near campus, in an area that would be called the student ghetto anywhere else. Here, surrounded by modular units, Cynthia felt like she’d wandered into a strip of hotels. The exteriors appeared to be gray rather than the ubiquitous beige favored elsewhere by the builders, but the tile roofs were a brighter shade of red. It was an unusual combination, and she wondered what the buildings looked like in the daytime.

Imogene answered on the first knock. Cynthia’s eyes were immediately drawn to a smoky crystal lodged between the other woman’s breasts. How did she manage to keep it there? Was she wearing a push-up bra?

Her date laughed. “Well, hello, stranger. I was beginning to think I’d be on a first-name basis with your grandmother before long.”

“I’m sorry about that. I’ve been busy.” Cynthia entered the apartment. She briefly noticed colorful mandalas on the wall before the crystal, plus breasts, pressed against her.

“I hope you’re not tired,” Imogene whispered, sliding her hands up Cynthia’s sides.

“Tired? Not at all.” Apparently, talking would have to happen later.

The following evening, Cynthia found a note stuck to her door. “Went to the beach for the day. Meet us at Dylan’s. Call if you have other plans.”

After the week she’d had, Saturday night at the beach sounded like a splendid idea. She found her swimsuit and threw it into one of Grandma’s tote bags. She added sandals, a cover-up, and a towel. No need for suntan lotion anymore.

As an afterthought, she packed her telescope and set it on the backseat. It would be nice to view the stars from the beach, maybe even spot a boat or two.

Grandma, Josie, and Christophe were sharing Chinese food around the coffee table when she arrived. Dylan escorted her to the couch. “Tea?” He indicated a silver service on the kitchen counter.

“Yes, thank you.”

Dylan poured her a cup while she set down her things near the door. “Cream? Sugar?”

“Just sugar, thanks.”

“You brought your telescope,” Josie said. She had chopsticks in her right hand. Based on the mess around her plate, eating with them was a skill still in development.

“Yes. I thought you might like seeing the stars without all the light pollution around the house.”

“Light pollution?”

“Streetlights, security lights, neon signs, things like that. They make it hard to see the fainter stars.”

“That sounds quite educational,” Dylan said. “I wouldn’t pass the opportunity up if I were you, Josie.”

The evening wasn’t a particularly cool one, but the breeze from the ocean was making it so for Josie. She was shivering in her T-shirt and shorts, so Cynthia took off her cover-up and wrapped it around the girl. “Slide your arm in here–now, the other arm…”

“Don’t you need it?”

“Not particularly. I don’t think I’m likely to catch cold any more.”

Josie snickered and pulled the terrycloth sash around her waist. “I guess not. Thanks.”

“That’s the Summer Triangle overhead. September is really the best time to see it, so it’s sort of a misnomer.”

“Misnomer. Uh huh.”

“The individual stars are Altair, Vega, and Deneb. Each is part of a separate constellation.”

She bent over the telescope and adjusted it. Once she had what she wanted in her sights, she waved to Josie. “Come look through here. See that bright light in the middle?”

The girl peered through the eyepiece. “Okay, I see it. Which star is this?”

“Technically, it’s a group of celestial bodies. It’s Polaris.”

“A group of bodies.”

“See the fainter circle of stars around it?”

“Yeah.”

“They call that the ‘Engagement Ring’. Polaris is the jewel.”

“Yeah! I could see that.”

“Polaris is the most important star for celestial navigation–steering by the stars. It’s been used in sailing since ancient times. It’s used to calculate latitude. It took longer to find ways to calculate longitude.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

This sharing interests thing wasn’t going as well as Cynthia had hoped. “In the old days, if you were far out at sea, this was the only way to figure out where you were. One whoopsie, and you could wind up missing land altogether. Or land in the wrong place.”

“That could be funny.”

“Funny or dangerous. Today we have GPS locators and the like, but the Navy required training in celestial navigation until at least 1997.”

“’Cos they’re old fashioned?”

“No, because it doesn’t send out signals the enemy could detect and it can’t be jammed.”

“What if it rains?”

Cynthia smiled. “Okay, that could jam it. It’s still useful to know.”

Josie gave her a curious look. “Do you know how to steer by the stars?”

“Of course I do. I have a sextant and almanac in my office.”

“Is this the sort of thing you teach your students?”

“No, I’m afraid not. Most of what we teach in astronomy is physics and data collection these days. There’s very little stargazing involved, which is a pity.”

“Where’d you learn all that navigation stuff, then?”

“I learned most of it on my own. My dad is in the Navy, and for a long time I thought seriously about going into it myself.”

“Why didn’t you? Were you already a vampire?”

Cynthia glanced around instinctively when Josie used the word ‘vampire’. The beach was deserted except for them. Grandma and Christophe were still happily chatting with Dylan. “No, but I was a lesbian. They were regularly discharging lesbians from the service at the time I was the right age for Annapolis.” She had never told her father the real reason she’d decided not to apply. He was disappointed with her decision. By that time, he’d realized that Christophe would never be military material on several fronts and hoped she would carry on the Leach family tradition.

It occurred to her that this was the first time she’d told Josie that she was a lesbian. The teen had probably guessed at her sexual orientation, but there was a difference between guessing and being told directly. Cynthia waited for her reaction.

Josie shook her head and snorted. “That’s not right. I mean, they should have been happy to get someone who already knew that stuff. So you don’t get to use it at all?”

“When we were stationed at Wilmington, we had a boat. I used to sail with Dad and use my sextant.” She didn’t add that her childhood practice had mostly involved calculating by the noontime sun. Something else she’d never get to do again. “I put the materials in my office because we don’t have a boat here.”

“Dylan has a boat.”

Interest punctured her bubble of self-pity. “Really? What type of boat?”

“A sailboat. He said he’d take us out some time to show us the city lights.” Josie looked down at her sash, fiddled with the knot. “Maybe you could bring your navigation thingies along and show me how it works.”

Cynthia flushed with pleasure. She’d actually penetrated the girl’s thick skull. Maybe practical applications were the way to teach Josie academics. “Of course. I’d be happy to.”

Eventually, Grandma took Josie home. Cynthia asked Dylan about his boat, and they talked about sailing conditions until they were interrupted by soft snoring.

She looked over and saw that Christophe had fallen asleep in his chair. His skin glowed faintly in the spots where it was freshly sunburned. “We were too boring. We put him to sleep.”

“We can forgive him,” Dylan said. “It’s awfully late.”

“How do you stand the hours?”

“Which hours?”

She sighed. “The ones between now and dawn. Everything’s closed, everyone’s asleep, but you’re still awake.”

“It’s a good time to do grocery shopping.”

“Besides that.”

Dylan chuckled. “You could record daytime television programs and watch them. Or you could spend your time stargazing.”

“I have to stop sometimes so Christophe can do his magic with the computers. I’ve thought about learning to do more of the computer stuff myself.”

“It wouldn’t hurt.”

“What else do you do?”

“If I’m not entertaining? Sometimes I sew.”

“You sew?”

“Costumes. I assist several local stage productions. I’ve even worked on set construction during the wee hours of the morning.”

“It sounds like you’ve got your schedule all worked out.”

“I’ve had years to perfect it. Speaking of your own schedule, you should probably take your brother home. He tells me he gets his best work done on Sunday.”

Cynthia waited until just before dawn on Monday morning to call. When Sonya’s voice mail activated, she used her scratchiest voice. “Sonya, I won’t be coming in today. I’m sick.” Cough, cough, cough. “Don’t worry about that class. I called Eric and he says he can cover it.” Cough, cough, cough. “I’m really sorry. He said I can do his evening lab tomorrow if I live.”

If Hargrave were really trying to establish dominance, Cynthia would know soon enough.

Finding Slippery Elm on the map was impossible until Uncle Wilbur learned that the complex had a golf course. There were golf courses all over the map. After a couple of wrong turns off Vendover and furious flipping through the Thomas Guide, they located the gatehouse. Once there, it was a matter of looping around in the hopes that the guard would leave the gatehouse for a pee break or something.

Buford sat in the back, looking around at the scenery as 2-Way drove. It was awful dry in California. The grass was yellow, poking up here and there in dry tufts, and the elm trees looked pretty scraggly.

“Hey, he’s getting into that stupid little car,” 2-Way said. “Maybe he does patrols.” As soon as the security vehicle was out of their line of sight, the gangsta pulled the car up to the gate and studied it. “That ain’t one of those bars we can lift. We’re gonna have to force it.”

“We can’t do that,” Merrimon argued. “It might damage it, and then we’d be in trouble with the law. It’s probably wired to send some sort of signal directly to the police.”

Their comrade-in-arms snorted a laugh, then grinned big enough for Buford to see the gold teeth inset with red gems. He must really be a ‘gangsta’ like he said he was. At first, Buford thought 2-Way was partial to pimento sandwiches like Grandpa Earl. Ganstas must have special dentists.

“There ain’t no signal,” 2-Way said. “The police’d be coming every time someone forgot their card and busted in. But let’s try another way first.” He reached over to the call box next to the gate and pushed a combination of buttons.

“Ackerman residence. Who’s there?”

“Pizza,” 2-Way announced cheerfully.

“Sorry, you have the wrong house.”

“Apologies, m’man.” He pushed the buttons again. “Pizza,” he said when the next voice answered, and got cut off immediately. “Rude people here.” He kept hitting buttons till someone said, “Not me, but okay.” The gates buzzed and opened. 2-Way hit the gas and they sailed through.

“That was pretty smart,” Buford complimented. His uncle had been right to get someone streetwise.

“Thanks. Now we gotta find the house.” He pointed the car down Slippery Elm East and they coasted slowly past a clubhouse with tennis courts and a swimming pool.

Uncle Wilbur pointed a finger at the set of Internet directions he’d printed at the library. “You should have turned right back there.”

“No, it’s left. They never get everything right.” They passed a few smaller streets, then Hickory and Holly Lanes.

“I’m telling you, we should have gone the other way.” Merrimon tapped the street-level map. “We should have seen White Oak Circle by now. Holly Lane is way over here, see?”

Their driver muttered and made a U-turn, neatly cutting off a woman in a Saab as he did so. “White Circle, here we come.”

“White Oak Circle.”

“Yah.”

They retraced their route, passing the pool again. Buford stared at the water with longing. It was hot in the back of their latest purchase from King’s E-Z Wheels, an old Chevy Caprice. The car’s air conditioning system had given up the ghost, which was probably why they’d gotten it so cheap. At least Mr. King hadn’t asked how the Focus got damaged.

When they reached White Oak, a disagreement ensued as to whether they should turn left or right. While Uncle Wilbur and 2-Way argued, a small vehicle with a tree stamped on the side pulled up behind them. The small green light on top began flashing.

2-Way swore. It was clear that Reverend Chenault needed to do a little more work on his nephew’s language.

A man dressed in dark blue security clothing got out of the vehicle and slowly approached their car. He had a radio in one hand, and the other hand hovered around the gun on his hip. When he got to the driver’s side, he whirled his hand in a lowering gesture to 2-Way, who complied by opening the window. “Excuse me,” the man said. “Craig Riggs, Security. Don’t believe I know you gentlemen.”

2-Way slumped and muttered something, but Buford’s uncle flushed and puffed up. “That’s none of your business.”

“Actually, it is. This is a private street and the Neighborhood Watch called us.”

“Neighborhood Watch?” Uncle Wilbur shouted. 2-Way, in the blast radius, flinched. “Making assumptions about us, just because we’re not driving a Lexus? Because the driver here is African-American?”

“I’m certain that’s not the case, sir.” Riggs didn’t look entirely convinced of his own words.

“Can’t he be visiting somebody white? Look at us, we’re his friends.”

Buford thought his uncle’s words were strange. Even after knowing him for a couple of weeks, Merrimon was still warning Buford to keep an eye on their new companion at all times.

Riggs refocused on 2-Way, who had pulled his cap even lower over his eyes when Uncle Wilbur began his tirade. “I apologize for sounding insensitive, sir. Whom did you come to visit? I can call them for you, even escort you there. You looked somewhat lost when I pulled up.”

“Thank you, Mr. Griggs–”

“Riggs.”

“Mr. Riggs, but we don’t have far to go. Wouldn’t want you to go out of your way.” 2-Way spoke a little too rapidly and his voice was higher than normal.

“Whom are you visiting?”

“The Wongs.”

“Which ones?”

“Uh, Chi and Chun. Wong, that is.”

“Hmm, not familiar with them off the top of my head. Where do they live?”

“Uh–”

Merrimon, who had been drumming his fingers on his armrest, piped up. “2201 Forest Trail.”

“Someone’s told you wrong,” Riggs said. “I know who lives there. Do you have a phone number?”

Both Riggs and 2-Way stared at Merrimon for the answer. Merrimon harrumphed and pulled out his address book. “Let me see. W. Walters, White, Williams… huh. No Wong. I must have left the phone number back at the hotel room.” He gave Riggs his most gracious smile, the one he normally reserved for offertory. “My heavens, what an mistake.”

“Quite all right,” Riggs said. “Here’s my suggestion. Why don’t you return to your hotel, contact your friends, and have them give you proper directions to their house? You seem to have some bad information.”

“We’ll do that,” 2-Way said. “Thanks for your help.”

“I didn’t know you knew someone here,” Buford said as the vehicle turned around, heading back to Slippery Elm. Riggs followed them in the security vehicle. “Who are the Wongs?”

“That was just a guess. See, they don’t have many brothers in Irvine. But they got lots of Asians.”

Uncle Wilbur had been clever to get someone local. “That’s really smart.”

“Not smart enough,” Merrimon said. “We’re gonna need a Plan B.”

Grandma scowled as she poured a wake-up cup of tea for Cynthia. “The chairman’s office called twice.”

“What did Sonya say?”

“No, dear, not his secretary. Professor Hargrave himself called directly. He was rather unpleasant. I told him that you were ill and I couldn’t wake you, but he was very skeptical.”

“I guess I’m a bad faker.”

“He wanted me to get you up, but I was stern with him. I’ve dealt with pushy administrators before.”

Josie looked up from her homework. “You should lie down on your back when you call next time. It makes you sound sicker.”

“And how would you know? There’ll be none of that with me, young lady,” Grandma said. “I don’t tolerate goldbricking.” At the girl’s puzzled expression, she explained, “Faking illness so you don’t have to go to class.”

“School stuff is easier than the stuff you make me do,” Josie retorted. “I’d go just to catch up on my sleep.”

“You need the extra training. The students here are very competitive.”

Cynthia opened her phone and noticed several missed calls. The callback number was blocked on each. Imogene? A student? The Reverend Merrimon? It seemed everyone was looking for her these days.

Imogene had wanted to go to the tea house at the Marketplace, but Cynthia had steered her away from there. It’d be just her luck to have someone in the department spot them together. When she turned the corner to the café they’d agreed on, she picked out Imogene’s scent before seeing her resting against the beige retaining wall. Provocative Woman mixed with unfiltered Camels. One was poised between her fingers, approaching her lips, when she saw Cynthia. She lowered the cigarette and smiled.

“Sorry I’m late. I have a bizarre schedule. It comes from being a professor.”

“A professor? Really? Here at UCI?”

“Yes. I hope you’re not one of my students,” Cynthia said, “although I’m sure I’d remember you if you were.”

Imogene laughed and stubbed out her cigarette on the concrete wall. “Flirt. So, what do you teach?”

“Astronomy.”

“Astronomy? Wow! It must be fate. I’m into astrology. Maybe you could teach me a few things.”

Cynthia tried not to show her disgust. She had the usual scientist’s distaste for astrology, but didn’t want to argue with Imogene. She’d fed from her. They’d slept together. Not to mention that, a short time ago, Cynthia hadn’t believed in vampires, either.

They entered the café and were shown to a table by a girl who was too young to look that bored. Cynthia studied the menu. Coffee, tea, and desserts priced double what they would cost in a supermarket. But Imogene liked this place. “What’s your pleasure?”

“Mmm, you know what that is,” the girl said, and leaned over to nip Cynthia’s ear.

“Besides that.”

After they gave the server their order, Imogene began talking about astrology and the mythical movement of planets within constellations that had shifted position centuries before. Cynthia was sipping on her chai latte, repressing the urge to scream, when her cell trilled. The phone number was blocked. Was a student rescuing her? “Excuse me,” she said, opening the phone. “Hello?”

“Ah, the sick Professor. Feeling better?” It was Hargrave.

Terror rendered her speechless. How had he gotten this number? It must have been Sonya; Eric wouldn’t squeal on her.

“Well?” the imperious voice demanded.

“A little.” She forced another cough. “I guess it was a combination of a cold and not being on my normal sleep cycle. I tried to sleep, but couldn’t, and I had a fever–”

“You’re not at home now.”

“Yes I am,” she choked out. She hoped the music in the background wasn’t loud enough to carry. In desperation, she slid out of her chair and onto the floor tiles. Imogene stared down at her, incredulous. “I just have my cell up here in my room and it woke me up.”

“It didn’t wake you up earlier.”

Ah, the missed calls. “Perhaps the cold meds are wearing off.” Cough, cough. “I’m very sorry I missed you, sir.” People, mostly students, at the other tables were standing up to get a better view. Imogene looked like she was trying not to laugh. “I should really take some more if I’m going to be well enough to cover Professor Gleason’s class.”

“I’m sure the recovery will be miraculous.”

“I hope you’re right, sir.” She produced a flurry of coughs. “I need to stop talking. It’s making my throat itch.”

“Don’t think you’ve heard the end of this, Leach.”

“Talk to you later.” She snapped the phone shut and Imogene whooped.

“You played hooky, didn’t you?”

Around them, the room burst into applause.

Cynthia scrambled to her feet and straightened her clothing. “Something like that. You won’t tell on me, will you?”

Christophe grumbled about being volunteered to monitor the first hour of Eric’s lab, but, as Cynthia suspected, didn’t refuse the job. She ducked Hargrave successfully, in part by postponing her next office visit until after her work in the observatory, and in part by changing her cell service.

Tuesday, Cynthia met her students at the door to the observatory. The blond student was missing from the group. Poor fellow wanted to learn, but didn’t know he was signing up for a class with a vampire. Obviously too much self-respect to be a good graduate student. Why, in the early days of astronomy, these students would have been up all night studying the stars first-hand. Thinking about it that way made her feel better.

Visiting the office afterwards changed self-justification to rage. She crumpled the notice from Hargrave and threw it in the trash can, then thought better of it. He’d be sure to see it in the morning. Maybe she could take it to the chem lab and dissolve it in acid. She fished out the paper back and stalked down the hall to Eric’s office.

“Did you see? Now he wants me to fill in for Franck the first week of October while the guy promotes his book. Couldn’t they just have spread the classes among the other people who work the day shift?”

“Anton didn’t ask anyone on ‘day shift’, as you put it, to cover. I don’t think that was the plan.”

Her brow puckered. “Why wouldn’t he ask them?”

“I don’t know if I should bring it up–oh, hell. Some of the faculty members voiced concerns at the staff meeting this morning that you were sort of the invisible professor.”

“Invisible?”

“You only teach one class and the hours are so weird that it’s really small. You only oversee one lab. You don’t share in the day-to-day routine of the department, and you’re almost never available for meetings. Most of the department hasn’t even met you. I’ve told people to stick around for an evening, but they put in some long hours here already.”

Her worst fears were coming true. She’d hoped she could continue teaching, but her new time constraints were too severe. “Do you think they’re going to try to get me fired? Just for being disabled in a weird way?”

“Not yet, but I think Hargrave’s trying to bring you into line. You’re setting a bad example by being the standout to his authority. He’s determined to become the permanent chair.”

Cynthia’s remonstrations continued long after Eric had gone for the night. She had expected a development like this, had been mentally braced for it. Why did it hurt so much?

At three in the morning, she realized that she was too busy brooding to get any work completed. There wasn’t any point to sticking around. She backed up her CDs and packed them away.

One of the lights in the elevator was burned out, reflecting her mood. What a loser she was. She’d been stupid to think she could continue teaching as a vampire. Even dumber, she’d moved her family to Irvine so they could experience her failure with her. Now they were all stuck together in a real-life episode of The Prisoner, with an unfortunate hitchhiker she’d picked up on the journey thrown into the mix. Where was Patrick McGoohan when you really needed him?

The night air was surprisingly cool on her skin. Not by North Carolina standards, but cool for this place. Maybe fall was finally on the way. Aquila was in the night sky, and soon Orion would follow. If there were some way to delay a confrontation, even for a few more weeks, the sun would set soon enough for her to take a greater role with the students.

She didn’t bother going home. Instead, she headed directly to Laguna Beach. If Dylan weren’t in, she’d wait on the porch.

Cynthia made the drive to Laguna Beach alone. The length of the drive was testament to how fond her brother was of Dylan. The outline of the shadowed hills was refreshing, but she missed the mountains of home. She missed stretches of real trees that hadn’t been planted by a landscaper, too. Most of all, she missed the daytime.

Southern California was known for its brilliant sunshine and beautiful coastline. Laguna Beach had originally been settled by artists who had been inspired by the surroundings. For Cynthia, however, the world would always be covered in darkness. The sand would never sparkle golden in the sun for her, traffic lights would be the only sightseeing she had on her drives. Businesses would always be shutting down. She would never be able to attend a morning meeting at her office.

She slammed the steering wheel, and it honked. The response honks from other cars reminded her that she was not the only driver on the road. Perhaps Dylan had some advice. He certainly seemed disgustingly cheerful most of the time.

Dylan received her with kind hospitality, offering her ginger ale or a glass of orange or pineapple juice. His range of nonalcoholic drinks had increased, and Christophe must have told him about her weakness for pineapple. She accepted the juice and they went out on the porch to watch the waves.

It was peaceful on the porch overlooking the surf. The white edges of the waves advanced and retreated, folding and unfolding in the darkness without concern. No wonder Christophe liked it out here. Cynthia sighed and traced a circle in the sand with her bare foot.

“You sound like you have more on your mind than a visit to the beach,” Dylan said. He was stretched out on a lounge chair on the porch.

“I have more trouble than you could shake a stick at.”

“After a decade or two, your perspective may change on what constitutes trouble.”

“Hargrave–that’s my boss–drives me nuts. I can’t work days, and I don’t see why he doesn’t understand that. I told the University that when I joined the faculty. I even stipulated my hours in my contract.”

Dylan shrugged. “You could stop working for a living. Most vampires find new goals, like taking over the world or terrorizing villages.”

“I see. And are you terrorizing Laguna Beach?”

“No, just exploiting it. I feed from the tourists, tutor drama students. Sometimes I take on a role in local stage productions. I arrange those in the winter when the hours are more convenient, of course.”

“Where does the money for this place come from?” She gestured around her. “A house on the beach, surrounded by resorts. How much is it worth? A couple of million? Ten million?”

He put a finger to his lips. “Shush. Talking about money is ill-mannered. Didn’t the grande dame teach you that?”

“I was just wondering if you had a sugar daddy.”

Dylan laughed at the idea, white hair falling back from his face. “No, but I did sleep my way into the role I traveled here to play. I came from money, dear. That, and the house wasn’t worth nearly as much when I bought it. Laguna Beach was a mere byway then, relatively people-free except for the artists. I’m just lucky my house didn’t slide into the ocean with me in it during the earthquakes and mudslides over the years.”

She added a few decades to her estimate of his age. “How do you manage your money? I don’t think banking hours are compatible with ours.”

“There’s this lovely thing called online banking. I have an accountant on retainer. And an attorney, of course. You would be amazed at how many resorts would love to take over this patch of beachfront.”

“No, I wouldn’t. How do you afford them, and the fancy cars?”

“The miracle of compound interest. It’s amazing what investments will do if you just let them sit for fifty-plus years.”

Compound interest. She should tell Josie about this. It might motivate her.

Although she tried to forget Eric’s remark about her being the ‘invisible professor’, the words echoed in her mind as she went to sleep and hovered around to attack her the following evening before she had even gotten out of bed. How could she forget them when they were true? Her communication with her co-workers had only been in the form of notes, and it had to be frustrating for them. She knew it was frustrating for her.

Perhaps that was why she snapped at Imogene.

They were at the coffee shop again, and Imogene was babbling about Venus placements and Mars going retrograde. Cynthia was willing to put up with a certain amount of annoying characteristics in a girlfriend, but Imogene had talked about astrology non-stop for the past thirty minutes. Her tension headache, something she thought dead people couldn’t have, finally overcame her manners.

“Enough!” She slammed the empty latte mug on the table, breaking the handle and cracking its bowl. “Mars does not reverse directions! It only looks like it’s going backwards because the Earth has lapped it! We’re going twice as fast.”

Imogene blinked. “The ancients didn’t know that.”

“But we do! Mars hasn’t changed course, so its vibrations, as you put it, haven’t changed one whit! And Venus stays within two signs of the Sun because it’s inside the orbit of the Earth and its relative position to the Sun is limited as a result.”

“Well, of course. But we–”

“And the constellations have all moved since Zohar or whoever decided what they meant. If you’re going to impute meanings to Sun signs, shouldn’t you at least get the dates right? Not to mention that the constellations are different sizes. Almost no one should be a Pisces, including you.” The patrons around them had turned to stare. Cynthia ignored them. The words, long suppressed, had to come out, and come out now.

An unpleasant flush spread across Imogene’s face. “You’re being too literal.”

“You’re ignoring what the planets actually do.”

“Aquarius is the sign of astrology. And you’re an astronomer, too. I thought you’d find this interesting.”

“I find it infuriating! The ancient astrologers studied the planets, too, but they were working from limited means and superstition. As their knowledge grew, they had the sense to leave the bad science behind. Why haven’t you?”

Their waitress was hovering beside the table, waiting for a break in the tirade. She seized on the simmering silence that followed this last outburst. “Can we ask you to hold your voices down? The other patrons are–”

“It’s all right,” Imogene choked through tears. “I’m leaving.” She threw a five on the table and stood. “You ought to look into anger management, Cynthia. I hope they charge you double for that cup!”

Then she was gone, and Cynthia was left behind to argue over the price of broken crockery.

She hated to impose on Dylan’s hospitality, but her brother, her usual confidante, was always at his house on their free evenings. She phoned first to make sure that she wouldn’t embarrass herself by interrupting them in bed, then headed for the ocean.

When she arrived, she found a third lounge chair set up on the porch. Dylan invited her to sit and relax. They stared at the surf for a few minutes and Cynthia decided she was calm enough to talk about her breakup with Imogene.

Dylan’s first question was practical. “Does she know you’re a vampire?”

“I don’t know. I tried to feed when she was… distracted. And not always from the same place.” Imogene had never complained or even said ‘ouch’ when Cynthia bit her. Instead, she seemed to derive great pleasure from the act.

“Somewhere she won’t check closely, I hope.”

“Not without a good mirror.”

“Mmm. Too much information, even for me.”

Cynthia felt her blood rise to her cheeks.

Christophe rescued her from her embarrassment. “Sometimes you meet somebody who seems great at first, but you have to find out what they’re really like before you commit. At least you found out early that you were going to have insurmountable problems.”

Dylan put a hand on Christophe’s arm. “Do I give you insurmountable problems, too?”

“No, I just want you all to myself.” He covered Dylan’s hand with his own before turning back to his sister. “You have enough problems with Hargrave without heaping more pain on yourself. You’ll find someone better suited to you.”

“Yes, like a hot female professor,” Dylan said. “You could study together.”

“I couldn’t do that with a co-worker. It’d be…”

“Let me guess. Unethical?”

“Ill-advised.”

“What about this Eric? How does he fit into your life?”

She stared at Dylan in puzzlement. “Eric’s another professor. He’s a friend.”

“More than a friend, surely. He’s far too concerned for your welfare.”

“Eric’s just being nice.”

“Nice comes with a price. How long have you known him?”

“Since the end of August. He was the first professor I met.”

“And what have you done for him in that time?”

A flush prickled in her cheeks. “I helped him on the public outreach night.”

“And in exchange, he’s been watching out for you in these staff meetings? He likes you.”

“Are friends bad?”

“He doesn’t want to be that kind of friend.”

“Why would he be interested in me?”

“You’re young, attractive, and charming in your own tight-assed way. Maybe you should find out how late he used to stay before you joined the faculty.”

Christophe laughed, but Cynthia shifted uncomfortably. Dylan had a point. She didn’t remember most professors at Chapel Hill staying in the office till nine or ten unless something important was going on. What if Eric really was doing all these things because he was attracted to her? She liked him, but she wasn’t interested in men. It would cause a lot of trouble, especially since they had to work together.

The wind shifted and the scent of the flowers, jasmine and clematis, reached her nostrils. They curled up trellises flanking the sides of the porch. Like the other blossoms surrounding the house, the predominant color was white.

“Your flowers are all white. Is that on purpose?”

“They show up the best in the dark. Changing the subject?”

She stared out at the stars. “Maybe. Did you like flowers when you were alive?”

“I liked all sorts of pretty things, but I know now how rare and precious they are.” He bent over to kiss her brother.

She averted her eyes, embarrassed to watch. Instead, she analyzed his floral choices more closely. “I see you’ve got some night bloomers,” she said when the kiss had ended. “They have a nice scent.”

“The shrubs at the bottom of the stairs are white lilac. They’re pleasant, too, but they’ve faded for the season.”

“How did you get jasmine to bloom at the end of September?”

“A little trimming, a little plant food… a little blood now and then.”

“It’s nice to know some people have blood to spare. Still, it must take a lot of work.”

“I have the time. Although–” he chuckled–“they attract more women than men.”

On Friday, the banner advertising the yard sale went up. “Last Yard Sale of the Year–Benefits Our Water Polo Team–Opens 10/9!”

It was not lost on the trio of vampire hunters who had swapped the Caprice out for a car the security guard hadn’t seen yet. At the King lot, 2-Way had suggested going upscale with the new model, something that would blend into the neighborhood a little better. A used Aztek wasn’t Merrimon’s idea of upscale, but it was the best they could afford with their pooled resources and Chenault’s good name.

Their mission had taken longer than Merrimon had thought it would. Here it was, going into the end of September, and they still hadn’t killed that vampire. Lord save them from teenage girls and old cars. At least 2-Way had become a believer, which was a great help. They were staying with him at his mother’s house, which had slowed the hemorrhage of their funds to a trickle. Buford viewed the whole trip as a great adventure, but the Reverend’s back was sore from hard mattresses and sagging couches. Only the thought of Roberta kept him going. He was doing this for Roberta.

When they drove by the gates to Slippery Elm on their daily troll, Merrimon riding shotgun as usual, they saw the sign stretched across the gatehouse. The Reverend slammed his fist into his palm with joy. “God has answered the prayers of W. Robert Merrimon and his men! His Merri-men.”

He laughed at his own joke. “Yes, I like ‘Merri-men’, that’s good. Let’s get cracking, Merri-men. We’ve got little more than a week to plan our assault on the castle.”

Friday night, the first twinges of hunger came sooner than Cynthia wanted. She was still smarting from the breakup with Imogene. She had no doubt that it was a breakup: when she’d called to apologize, Imogene had told her to drop dead. Cynthia started to respond that the suggestion came two months too late, but found herself talking to a dial tone.

She was explaining kinematics to Josie when Christophe entered the study with Grandma. “You guys need to see this.” He took the mouse away from Josie and opened the browser. “Pardon my reach.” Cynthia watched as he typed in a URL and clicked on the arrow.

A web page with brocade-style borders came up. In the background, behind the print, was a tree that looked familiar. It was an elm tree, but–yes, a slippery elm. One that looked like it was supposed to, tall with branches spread wide.

“‘The Slippery Slum’,” Josie read aloud.

“It’s a blog about the neighborhood association,” Christophe said. “We’re headlining at the moment.”

“Heretics in the Henhouse,” the title of the entry announced. “The authority of The Bishop faces a new challenge from The Lady of Aquitaine. She entered the kingdom on a white charger with her entourage a mere month ago, but has already caused quite a stir. She doesn’t belong to the Church of England, and her grandchildren are outright atheists.”

“It looks like we’re not the only people here that have a problem with Heather.”

Christophe scrolled down the page and pointed at the screen. “I think you’ll be very interested in this part, Josie.”

The girl bent close. “’While young Lady Josette, squire of Dame Scholastica Nocturna, was taking her ease at the healing baths’–healing baths?–‘she left her mount, an old but prized gelding named DeSoto, unattended.’ Why Josette?”

“Maybe he thought it would sound more medieval than ‘Josie’.”

“Maybe he knows Cynthia’s little secret and he’s seen Dark Shadows,” Christophe suggested. “Scholastica Nocturna, indeed.”

Cynthia elbowed her brother as Josie continued. “’Prince Jason thought it would be a fine prank to have her steed disappear, so he summoned a knight to take the gelding away.’ That a-hole! I thought the–” she glanced at Grandma “–shrew did it.”

“The horse was recovered unharmed, but the Lady of Aquitaine was not amused. She stalked into church during the next service and announced to everyone that the mare was the property of her household. Anyone who touched DeSoto again would have to answer to her.”

“I’m impressed,” Grandma said. “He’s written a roman à clef.”

“A what?”

“A work of fiction, Josie, that thinly disguises real people and their actions. For example, the white charger is my Volvo. I am the Lady of Aquitaine because my name is Eleanor.” At the continued blank look on the girl’s face, she sighed. “Eleanor of Aquitaine was a famous queen of England. She was married to the king of France, then later to the king of England. We really need to work on your history.”

“Oh. Okay. Wouldn’t it be easier to just put things in plain English?”

“Maybe he’s a literary blogger.”

“Maybe he’s afraid to get sued,” Christophe said. “We aren’t public figures, and directly identifying people like Heather would probably land him in court.”

“Old gelding? Gelding?” Josie muttered. “I have a muscle car. He just hasn’t seen how I’m planning to spiffy it up. And maybe run over a certain little prince.”

“Don’t do that,” Cynthia said. “It’ll ruin your grill. I think this is a good stopping point for us, Josie. I’m going out for something to eat.”

She brightened. “McDonald’s? Taco Bell? Can I come?”

“Not that sort of eating, and no, you can’t.”

The bars in Costa Mesa were already buzzing with the Friday crowd, but Cynthia didn’t want to return to the bar scene just yet. People there would still be connecting her with Imogene. Better that she observe a short mourning period by pub standards and find her food elsewhere.

Instead, she drove to campus and headed across Aldrich Park to Langson again. She didn’t know how, but at some deep level she sensed that the woman she’d fed from before was there again, studying. In honor of the setting, she’d donned a sensible but attractive cream shirt and khakis.

Even with midterms fast approaching, the library was largely empty. Cynthia climbed the stairs to the level with the carrels, adjusting her armful of books so the spine of the Audre Lorde volume was carelessly but clearly displayed.

Her prey was, indeed, there again. This time she was awake and working on her laptop. Several photocopied articles with highlighted sections were spread across her desktop.

Cynthia harrumphed to get her attention. “Mind if I study over here?” She indicated an adjoining carrel. “This floor is too big and empty. It gives me the creeps.”

“Mmm?” The ponytailed head turned. “Sure. No problem.”

“Thanks.” She fumbled with her books, nearly dropping them. As expected, the student reached up to steady the stack, then stopped to peer at the titles.

“Ah! Audre Lorde. I had her in one of my Women’s Studies courses over the summer.”

This was a good sign. “You did?”

The young woman, who was likely only Cynthia’s junior by five or six years, sat back in the chair and pushed her Lisa Loebesque glasses up on her forehead. “Are you a women’s studies student? I think I know you from somewhere.”

Let’s hope you don’t remember the details. Cynthia balanced her books on the top edge of the carrel. Close enough to show interest, far away enough to allay fear. “I’m new to UCI, and it’s been a while since I’ve taken classes. I thought I might want to review some of the literature before I made my decision. Are you in the women’s program here? What’s it like?”

Cynthia lay beside her sleeping companion, debating what excuse for leaving would be the least offensive, when something touched her foot.

She raised her head and saw a small hand. “Mommy.” The small hand was attached to a small person whose head barely cleared mattress level.

Cynthia tried to smile reassuringly. “No, I’m Cynthia. Do you need your mother?”

The little girl’s hair was fine like her mother, Lucy’s, but flaxen blonde. “Dooce.”

“Dooce?” Cynthia wasn’t certain what that meant. She’d never really known what to do around the children of her fellow professors at Chapel Hill. Of course, raising children had always struck her as an unlikely development, everything considered.

Fortunately, Lucy stirred beside her. “Uma?”

“Dooce.”

“It’s too early for that. Go back to your room and Mommy will be there in a moment to tuck you back in.” She gave Cynthia an embarrassed glance.

“Dooce!”

“What’s ‘dooce’?” Cynthia asked.

“She wants a juice box. Oof!” Uma had clambered onto the bed and on top of Lucy.

“Dooce, Mommy.”

Confused thoughts tumbled through Cynthia’s brain as she reclaimed her car from the parking spot in front of Lucy’s mother’s townhouse. Getting up to share juice with Uma had made leaving easier, but a child created complications. Lucy wouldn’t question Cynthia’s strange hours, but if she became a regular feature in Lucy’s life, her mother would. Mrs. Hart had come into the kitchen during the communal juice session, and had appeared disapproving of her daughter’s nighttime companionship.

No, she couldn’t feed too often from Lucy. She needed to find other sources of blood to keep the hunger at bay. Memories of their non-meeting a month ago tinged their reunion with sadness. What if she had killed Lucy that first night? Uma would be motherless now. Cynthia shuddered at the danger she posed to others, simply being what she was.

Grandma looked up from the homework she was checking. “Someone has a birthday in October. I know, because I made up her birth certificate.”

Cynthia, sitting at the study table with Josie and several science books, turned to her young companion. “Is it going to be your birthday for real?”

Josie frowned. “Yes... Why would I lie about that?”

“Let’s see… could it be because you keep changing where you’re from?”

“I put down Oklahoma City on the birth certificate. I thought the loss of federal records there might make tracing her background a little harder,” Grandma said. Her answer was a stuck-out tongue from Josie.

“We should do something to celebrate,” Cynthia said. “Are you interested in a party, or would you rather do something else? We could see Disneyland. Or maybe you and Grandma could see it. I don’t know their hours.”

Josie shrugged, then smiled as an idea obviously hit her. “I know!” She stood up and puffed out her chest. “Clarissa says that when she turned sixteen, her parents got her breast implants.”

“No,” Grandma said.

“Lots of girls here have implants, even the Asian girls. They make me feel so flat.”

“No,” Grandma repeated, more firmly. “You are not having cosmetic surgery for your seventeenth birthday.”

Josie rotated to Cynthia, who was at the table reading her mail. She grasped her breasts and held them up for Cynthia’s inspection. “What about you? You like girls. Do you think these are attractive?”

Cynthia blushed. She opened her mouth to reply, but no words came forth. What was she supposed to say?

Grandma stood, too. “Stop that!” she snapped. “I hope you haven’t been doing that for the male opinions in your school.”

“Of course not! They’re boys! We’re all women here.”

“The jury is still out on whether some people are women yet. However, you just pointed out that Cynthia likes girls. How is waving them in her face different from sticking them in front of boys?”

“Oh. Oops.” She released her bosom. “Well, um… since it’s too late, what do you think, Cynthia?”

“I’m more of a leg woman, personally, but I agree with Grandma: no surgery. If you think you still need it when you’re eighteen, get a job and pay for it yourself.”

“Boo hiss. Okay, what’s the football schedule at the University? Maybe we could go to a late game.”

“Okay, let’s see if we can find something online.” They moved to the PC and Cynthia pulled up the UCI Athletics site. “Hmm. Nothing here…” After a lengthy search, she turned to the teen and shrugged.

“UCI doesn’t have a football team.”

The teen’s mouth dropped open. “You’re shitting me!”

“Josie!” Grandma snapped. “Language!”

“The language is English!” she retorted. “I can’t cuss in French yet!”

“There will be no ‘cussing’ in any language in this house.”

“But it’s a cussing occasion! What kind of college doesn’t have a football team?”

“This one,” Cynthia said. “It looks like the administration could never find the resources to start a team or build an arena. They do some flag football in the intramural sports and that’s it.”

“This is a weird town. Do they have basketball, or are they completely insane?”

She returned to the Athletics page. “Yes, they have a basketball team.”

“Whew!” Josie feigned relief. “We could do basketball, then. And I want to go to a pizza place before or after. I never get to have pizza.”

Grandma relented. “Perhaps we could waive the usual dietary restrictions for your birthday... but no more swearing!”

“I’ll believe that when I stop hearing it,” Cynthia said. “You two work out the details. Just make sure part of the celebration, at least, is after dark so I can come.”

After dinner, Christophe and Josie went to the study so he could tutor her in mathematics. Meanwhile, Cynthia helped Grandma wash the dishes. Josie’s birthday request kept creeping into her thoughts, disturbing her.

“I don’t understand why Josie would want implants, anyway.” The idea was jarring. “Are the other students really making her feel that deficient?”

Grandma clucked. “All teenagers feel deficient. If she had a large chest, she’d want a reduction.”

“Why would someone like this Clarissa want to associate with Josie, anyway? She sounds like one of those shallow California girls you see on television.”

“Perhaps because Josie is different and interesting. She talks with a strange accent and has a mysterious background. And she isn’t as concerned with looking perfect, birthday requests notwithstanding.”

It was time she took the bull by the horns with Eric. No matter how badly she needed an ally in the department, she shouldn’t string him along. It was unethical, no matter how useful it had been over the last few weeks. The ride in the elevator was silent, but words echoed through Cynthia’s mind. Should she be direct–“Are you interested in me sexually?” or find some subtler way to make it clear that she wasn’t interested in men? “I met a girl over the weekend that seems really nice, but I might be on the rebound from Imogene. How do straight people tell if they’re on the rebound, Eric?” The doors slid open and Cynthia stepped out, feeling quite inadequate to the task before her. She headed towards Eric’s office, but when she passed the administrative offices the door opened and a man stepped out to block her path.

“You!” His finger jabbed at her face. “Are you Professor Leach?”

A spike of fear shot through her–had Merrimon and his men invaded the building itself? She jumped back and raised her hands in a defensive position. “Eric! Eric, are you here?” she called. Maybe they would back off if they saw she had allies. Or maybe they wouldn’t. What if they’d already found Eric and tied him up, or even killed him?

As she scanned the rest of the hall, looking for the Reverend, listening for Eric, her assailant scowled and placed his own hands on his hips. He appeared to be in his late thirties and was a bit on the pudgy side, not at all the sort of person she would choose to face a vampire. “Lady, what is your problem? You are Professor Leach, aren’t you?”

Footsteps coming down the hall. Eric, with a concerned expression on his face. She sighed with relief. “Eric, do you know this man?”

“Well, yes.” He glanced from one to the other. “Cynthia, this is Stefan Franck. Stefan, this is Cynthia Leach.”

“Oh. Sorry.” She felt the blood pour into her face. Now that she was dead, why did she still blush?

Pudge shook his fist. “That’s what I thought! I need to talk to you.”

“Um… now?” she stalled while she tried to organize her thoughts. She’d come here braced for an emotional confrontation with Eric, not a scheduling disagreement with a stranger. And whose fault was that? If she weren’t a vampire, there wouldn’t be a problem with covering for another professor. Then again, if she weren’t a vampire, she wouldn’t be at UCI in the first place.

“Yes, now. I didn’t stay till–” he checked his watch “–till nearly eight for it not to be now.”

“Okay, it’s now. You’re mad at me.”

His face flushed. “Yes! I want to know what your problem is. Do you really believe you’re that much better than everyone else?”

“No, Stefan,” she said evenly. “I don’t believe that at all.”

“Well, you seem to think everyone here has to teach the standard curriculum but you. You got Eric to cover the last time someone else needed help. You don’t come to the staff meetings, you send your assistant to take notes for you. It’s insulting.”

“I apologize for that. I have my own scheduling problems, Stefan, and I have protected research hours. Dr. Fahy, the director at the time, agreed to abide by the schedule I set. I didn’t know he was leaving.”

“He probably agreed to it because he was leaving. He wasn’t going to have to deal with the fallout personally, and getting another grant looked good on paper.”

“I beg your pardon. My project has a great deal of intrinsic worth, and will do more for the field than you know. Maybe he was hoping he’d net another Nobel Prize for the University.”

Franck threw up his hands. “You research people always think you’re going to get a Nobel for your work. It rarely happens. Meanwhile, I have a textbook ready to teach the next generation of astronomers all the ways–all the new ways–people like you do that research, but I can’t get away long enough to peddle the damned thing.”

Cynthia was torn between resentment at his belittling of her work and admiration of his pride in educating others. “Isn’t there some sort of compromise that could be reached? Can’t you do dinner meetings, or schedule these things during the winter and spring breaks?”

Eric, watching the exchange silently, turned to Stefan for his reply.

“I was hoping to get it into a few classrooms within the coming academic year. That takes a lot of time, effort, and persuasion, and it helps if I don’t do it during people’s free evenings.”

She sighed. “Stefan, I know I’d be interested in reviewing your book myself. If it’s as helpful as you say, I’ll see what I can do about promoting it to my colleagues back at Chapel Hill.”

Stefan deflated. “I’d appreciate that, but I still need that time next week and I’m not getting any help. We’re supposed to cover for one another every once in a while, you know.”

“Yes, and I’d cover under other circumstances. Are you aware that Hargrave didn’t ask anyone else but me? Eric thinks he’s trying to show me who’s in charge.”

His fleshy face contorted again. “Do you think you’re the only one? What the hell do you think he’s trying to do to me? He’s coming out with his own book in a month and he’s selling to the same crowd! His textbook, and the class curriculum he’s set up for it, are part of his plan to get the chair permanently.”

She should have realized this would come back to office politics. “That’s wrong. He shouldn’t use his position in that way.”

“Good idea in principle, but that’s not how it works in academics.”

“Look, do you have a copy of the book I can review? I might be able to help there. Have you tried asking the other professors if they’d mind taking turns with your sessions?”

He shrugged. “They’ve been avoiding me. They don’t want to get caught in the crossfire.”

“Tell them I’ll take the blame. Hargrave’s already mad at me. They’re just being the good team players I’m not.”

“That may not persuade them.”

“At least try, Stefan. I’ll see what I can do on my own.” She looked down at her watch. “Why don’t the three of us try contacting some of the other professors and see if some of them can cover at least a couple of the classes? In return, I could fill in during the evening lectures and labs... next month, preferably. I’m pretty tied up at the moment.”

Stefan looked at Eric, who shrugged.“Couldn’t hurt to try.”

It wasn’t until later, taking a break while Christophe ran the latest figures, that Cynthia remembered why she’d been looking for Eric in the first place. She’d meant to confront him about their relationship, find out if Dylan was right about Eric’s feelings. Instead, she’d gotten caught up in Franck’s problems. Was that because Franck’s needs were more pressing, or because she didn’t want to lose the only ally she had in the department? Even worse, she might have been trying to keep Eric as an ally so he would help Franck, thinking it would please her. What sort of manipulative creature did that make her?

On Tuesday, Cynthia entered the computer lab and discovered that her class had several additional attendees, including two of the fellows. They must have heard about the demonstration scheduled for this evening. She was encouraged by their interest; this would show Hargrave that she had something to offer the department.

The students clustered around the table, oohing and ahhing over the display. Her brother had networked two flat-screen monitors so the graphics began on one side and ended on the other. A third screen, that of the laptop, displayed a table of data.

“Let’s say that you have this much data about the movement of this nebula. Maybe you’re working on an algorithm to predict its movements. Once you’ve got one, you can try it out on the screen like this–” the cloud of blue and white speckles expanded into a more linear shape, to more murmurs “–or you can backdate the algorithm, seeing if it’ll tell you where the stars were in the past.” The shape collapsed into a pair of mouse ears. “Anaheim, perhaps?” The class laughed.

Cynthia waited until he’d reset the screen before continuing. “Our research concerns baryonics, so most of our programs are set up to track the movement of mass and adjust for gravitational lensing. The programs we’ve developed are pretty handy at projections, and we hope, eventually, regression. They’re proprietary, so we can’t show much to you, but there are several options available now for creating simulations of your projects.”

“The tables in the laptop are simply the raw data,” Christophe said. “You’ll need a much bigger system to run full-scale simulations.”

“We can show you some limited demonstrations tonight. All the information we’ve been collecting for the past few weeks is collected here.” She held up a data stick. “We jack it in, import the tables, and…”

Her brother took over again. “We run the information through the algorithms. Let’s go backwards. See this cluster on the screen? Let’s take it back about a hundred thousand years.”

The two hours the class was supposed to take passed quickly. An hour after that, Security threw them out of the building.

When the group broke up outside and began to go their separate ways, a figure detached itself from a nearby bench and approached them. It was Imogene. Cynthia began a ‘hello’, but it died in her throat when the woman threw her arms around her.

“I hope you don’t hate my guts,” her ex cried. “I know this has to be a surprise.”

Her students, Nenita and Zhou, stopped, puzzlement on their faces. Cynthia waved them on. “This is a friend. See you Thursday. If you have trouble setting up the next group of tables, Nita, call my brother tomorrow.”

Imogene waited until the students were out of earshot before hugging Cynthia again. The familiar blend of perfume and cigarettes filled her nostrils. “I wish we hadn’t fought. I should have realized that a relationship needs some listening sometimes, not just talking.”

How could she disagree with that? “I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have lost my temper. I just got frustrated with the lack of science used in astrology.”

“It’s not really scientific,” Imogene admitted. “Once astronomy and astrology were the same thing, but they separated a while back. Astrology works, though. It’s a spiritual force.”

Cynthia knew better than to argue with people about their spiritual beliefs. Logic had very little to do with them. At least Imogene seemed to be working on a rationalized compromise. She didn’t know if that was good or bad. Did she really want Imogene back?

“How do you know that it works? I mean, can you feel it or something?”

Imogene spread her arms. “Can’t you feel something special under the stars? Or when you stand under the moon, or the sun at midday?”

Cynthia had a good idea of the sun’s special effects on her. She didn’t know the scientific reasons, but empirical evidence had made her unwilling to try experimentation. “The stars have always been special to me.”

“Why don’t we go someplace more comfortable than outside a classroom building, and we can talk about it?”

It was a weeknight, so most of the areas around campus were preparing to close down. They opted for the McDonald’s, which was open all night. Imogene had fries and a Coke. Cynthia asked for a bottled water. The brilliant lights didn’t do much to set a romantic mood, but at least they were alone.

“I’ve missed you,” Imogene admitted.

“I’ve missed you, too.”

“Even though we argued, we both find inspiration in the stars.”

Cynthia avoided the glittering eyes. “I guess it’s something we have in common.”

“Maybe we’re meant to learn from each other. I’ve been doing some reading recently, of a scientific sort. I sort of understand what retrograde means now.”

“Oh! That’s… excellent.”

“I’m sure it’ll make me a better astrologer, since I’m already learning a lot. I think there are things you can learn from me, too. I looked at your chart again. Did you know you’re having a Saturn return?”

“A what?”

“Saturn has that twenty-eight, twenty-nine year orbit. When it comes back to where it was when you were born, that’s a Saturn return.”

“Okay, I see where the term comes from. What is it supposed to mean?”

“Saturn is discipline, lessons you’re learning. It’s maturity. When you have your first Saturn return, it means you’ve grown up. That’s why thirty is such a big age for some people.”

“You’re saying I’m immature?”

Imogene stared at her for a moment, then smiled. “You’re teasing. Good, I was afraid you were getting mad again. Anyway, everyone has special issues they’re working over. Saturn tells us what they are.”

In English or Latin? Cynthia wondered.

“Your Saturn is in the eighth house. That’s sex, death, and the occult.”

“Sounds kinky.”

Imogene’s toes found Cynthia’s leg. “Only if you have a good adjustment. Anyway, you’re working on what really matters. Who you can trust, is there life after death, what legacy do you want to leave behind, that sort of thing.”

Life after death? Okay, this was a pretty creepy coincidence. “And you’ve come back to help me?”

“I can’t stay away from you. Must be that kinky side.”

“I don’t know why I didn’t talk to Eric about it,” she told Dylan. “I should have, but instead I let him think what he wanted to for a while longer, so he’d help Franck out.”

“You were being practical. Besides, it would be a bit awkward to ask Eric to assist this hapless textbook salesman and reject him as a lover at the same time. Your cohort needed his help more than you needed to be honest.”

“That sounds nicer than what I’ve been telling myself.”

“Years of practice. Keep in mind that you’re not in a position to cover for him. It’s not a matter of ‘won’t’. You can’t.”

“I know I can’t. But I’ve begun to lie, to become dishonest. It’s wrong.”

Dylan leaned forward in his seat and focused his pale eyes on her face. “Eric has never asked you out, correct? Then waiting till a more propitious time to discuss his feelings isn’t going to hurt. Explaining why you can’t cover day classes would only get you discharged from your post and referred to a therapist. Either way, your fellow educator isn’t going to get the help he needs. You need to stop looking at this in terms of upholding your honesty and honor, and ask yourself if there is another way to solve the problem.”

“Humm.” She drew her knees up to her chin on the lounge chair.

“Can’t you feel virtuous in the knowledge that you’ve helped someone else with a problem?”

She eyed him sideways. “You and your sophism. I’m sorry for dropping by, especially without Christophe, but I don’t know when I’ll be free again. I’m seeing Imogene this weekend. We made up.”

“Ah, yes, Imogene. Are you binding her to you?”

“No!” Cynthia said, shocked. “I don’t even know what you mean by ‘binding’, but it sounds wrong. Why would I do that?”

“So she won’t tell on you, silly. She doesn’t sound like the sort of girl you’ve been eager to take home to meet the family.”

Cynthia shifted in her chair, slats creaking beneath her. Dylan raised an eyebrow, which made her even more uncomfortable. “I don’t know,” she finally said.

“Well, if you’re going to keep seeing her, you need to bind her to you or create some sort of serious commitment. Binding her–giving her some of your blood–is the safer option. It will put her under your dominance. Otherwise, once she realizes that you are a vampire, a breakup would be disastrous. Infatuation is fleeting, but blackmail is forever.”

“She wouldn’t do that. She likes me.”

“You really need to learn not to become emotionally involved with your food, you know. Do you think that the farmer marries Bossy because he wants her milk?”

“But I feel guilty. I don’t want to use people.”

Dylan sighed and stretched one arm up to the jasmine vine, winding it around a finger. “But we have to, dear. We have to eat, after all, just like anyone else. Do you truly think that it’s better to lead someone on than to let them think you wanted them for only one thing? Especially if it’s true. Do you love her?”

“I like her. I might fall in love with her. If she had a brain transplant.”

“If you don’t, then isn’t it worse to let her think that you’re in love with her? It’s an ethical issue, you know.”

“Well, yes, I know that. Is there any other way to feed besides this sort of... encounter?”

“You could go to the country and try livestock. You have to be careful, though.”

“Steroids?”

“Steroids only work on people who are still alive. No, you have to be careful not to kill the animals. Farmers are damned careful about the health of their investments.”

“Where do you find countryside around here? Irvine was once part of the Irvine Ranch, but that was a long time ago... Were you here then?”

Dylan draped his arms across the back of the couch and tipped an imaginary hat. “Why shore, little lady. I worked with the lil’ dogies, ropin’ ‘em every once in a while for a snack.”

Cynthia laughed.

Dylan gave her a mock-injured look. “Don’t you believe me?”

“No, I think it would be much too dusty and smelly for someone like you. You strike me as the type more likely to hang out at the saloon, checking out cowboy butts.”

“You’re smarter than you look. The ranch was here when I came to California, but I was en route to Laguna Beach even then. I came with the movie people when they first decided it would make a good background setting for films.”

“Really? Were you in the movies?”

“No, becoming a vampire pretty much ended that. Hard to make movies on location when you can’t do daytime shoots. Too bad; I would’ve been a natural for Captain Blood.”

She chuckled. “I know I’m asking a lot of questions, but I am fairly new to this. Are there any other methods you would suggest?”

“Well…” the devil played in his expression, “You could begin dating Eric after all. You’d make him happy and you wouldn’t even need to have sex with him. Just take enough of his blood to make him pass out before you actually do anything in bed.”

She scowled at him. “I don’t think so.”

“It would truly be a platonic relationship and he wouldn’t even have to know it. Give him some alcohol first and he’ll think he just doesn’t remember.”

“I really don’t think so.”

“You don’t even have to lie. Just smile at him the next day and keep agreeing to go out with him. He’ll think he’s a fantastic lover when he’s drunk.”

After she finished covering Franck’s lone evening lab, Cynthia visited Eric’s office to see if he was still there. The door was open and the light was on, so she assumed he was welcoming visitors. She entered the doorway and leaned on the jamb, watching him enter a set of computations. When he finished, she cleared her throat. He turned, saw her, and smiled.

“How did the lab go?”

“It went fine, although the students had no clue who I was. They just took it for granted that I was their teacher for the evening.”

“You’ll be okay. They’ve just had a broad rotation of instructors this week.”

She made a sound that was a near-laugh. “As long as they don’t complain to Hargrave.” She stopped and took a deep breath. “I came up here tonight to speak to you.”

“Me?” His eyes lit up and her heart sank. Dylan had been right.

“Eric, I’ve begun to wonder–do you help me because you’re my friend or because you’re interested in me?”

He flushed all the way to the ginger fuzz. “A little of both.”

“I hope you are my friend, Eric. And I hope you will stay my friend. But you need to know that I’m a lesbian. I’m not interested in men. Not in that way, at least.”

He stared at her, eyes made bluer by the blush flooding his face. “I didn’t know that. I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to impose on you. I always assumed you seemed detached because of your project. We’re all nerds here, you know. I guess that made me a little dumb.”

She shook her head sadly. “No, you aren’t dumb at all, Eric. You have no idea how grateful I am for the help you’ve given me. I’m the dumb one for not realizing till now that I might be taking advantage of you over feelings I can’t return.”

“Hey, at least you figured it out,” he said with a forced chuckle. “I guess I’m the clueless one.”

“No, not at all.” She would still be in the dark herself, if someone hadn’t hit her over the head with a two-by-four. “I wasn’t thinking, but now that I am, I want to make sure our relationship is an honest one.”

“Um… okay. Is it okay if I just digest this for a bit?”

“Sure. Of course.”

“Alone?”

“Oh.” Not a good sign. She stepped back out of the doorway and retreated to her office. Why did being honorable have to hurt so many feelings? Even if Eric was able to one day be friends with her again, she was on her own. What happened between her and the department now depended entirely on her own actions.

Thursday’s class was lively. The students were filled with questions about the demonstration. How had she and Christophe come up with the algorithms? Where did the influence of dark matter and dark energy come into the equations? How long did it take them to set up the program? She basked in their curiosity, feeling that all the trouble it had taken to keep teaching was worth it.

When she returned home, however, her grandmother’s soft voice called her into the TV room. Cynthia found her curled up in front of Animal Planet. “You need to go upstairs and talk to your brother. He came home upset about something and he won’t talk about it with me.”

Cynthia thumped Christophe’s bedroom door with the heel of her hand. “Are you decent?”

“Physically, yes. Mentally, no.”

“Good enough.” She entered the room and closed the door behind her.

Christophe was at his computer, desk fan in his lap. He was in the process of taking it apart with a small screwdriver.

“What are you doing?”

“It’s starting to accumulate dust,” he said. “I’m cleaning it.”

“Is it plugged in?”

“It’s off. I’d have to climb under the desk to unplug it.”

Cynthia growled and bent down. “Move your legs.”

“I’ve done it before,” he said, lifting his legs so she could root around for the power strip. “I’m just removing the screws around the plastic grill. They’re nowhere near the machinery.”

“Okay, it’s unplugged.” She crawled backwards and raised her head carefully, watching for the edge of the desk. “Anything in my hair?”

“No.”

He didn’t look up as he said it, so she did a quick sweep over her head with her hand. After a moment of silence, she sat down on the edge of his bed. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” A third tiny screw joined two already sitting on the desk, then a fourth.

“You aren’t acting like you’re okay.”

He grunted and removed the fifth screw. The grill came apart, and he took a tissue to it.

“You said you would be out tonight. Is Dylan busy?”

“I don’t know.” The tissue went into the trash can, and he thwacked the plastic piece on its edge for good measure.

“You had a fight.”

Christophe set the grill next to the screws, and applied a fresh tissue to the blades. “Not exactly.”

“He needed some space for a while?”

“Maybe.” He picked up a can of compressed air and aimed the nozzle at the center of the mechanism. The whoosh drowned out all other sound for several seconds, more than Cynthia thought was strictly necessary.

“What does maybe–” He began blasting air again, and she raised her voice. “That can is going to run out of air before I do.”

“I have a backup.”

“You’re being difficult.”

“No, you are.” He slammed the can down, then breathed deeply and sighed. “I know you’re worried, but I don’t want to talk about it. At least not at the moment.”

“When do you think you might be ready?”

“A day, a week, who knows? Look, it’s not something you can help with. Now leave, please.”

Cynthia felt like a heel, taking Imogene out on Friday night while her brother moped at home, but she needed blood. The two women went to Newport Beach for drinks and dancing, then returned to Imogene’s apartment for dessert. ‘Dessert’ was a can of whipped cream, served in the bedroom.

Afterwards, Imogene yawned and traced her fingertips over Cynthia’s breasts. “You’re such a vampire.”

Cynthia froze. She’d been so careful. “A what?”

“A vampire, sweetums. An energy vampire.”

“What’s an energy vampire?”

Imogene gave her an amused smile. “An energy vampire sucks the vitality out of the people she’s around, especially during sex. Haven’t you noticed how tired I get after we make love?”

“I thought you were just worn out,” Cynthia stammered. “You’re always so demonstrative.”

“That’s why I carry this now,” her lover said, picking up the smoky crystal from the end table. “It seals my aura and keeps me energized.”

Relief swept through Cynthia. Imogene was very close to the truth, but not close enough. “I thought you put it in your cleavage to draw my eye,” she teased.

“That, too,” Imogene kissed her. “I want you to give all my energy back to me in bed.”

The morning of the yard sale was sunny, a good omen. The vampire hunters were cheered to see that the gates to Slippery Elm were open. Merrimon’s plan was to pass by the clubhouse, where the sale was going on, but Buford insisted on stopping. He was sure he’d spotted a table of Hummel figurines among the items being sold.

“They might have one Ma doesn’t have. It won’t take long, Uncle Wilbur.”

“Maybe we should,” 2-Way said. “It’d make us look more legit.”

Muttering, Merrimon consented.

They parked and got out of the Aztek. A hot, dry wind made the day hotter than it should have been.

People gathered along the edges of the tables like ants around spilled soda, studying the contents, some sidling to the next offering while others stopped to drink. Buford plowed into the crowd, heading with purpose towards a display mostly concealed by onlookers. Merrimon and 2-Way followed behind him. People were staring at them–no, at 2-Way. Chenault’s nephew had, thankfully, allowed incoming hair to obliterate the word ‘PIMP’ from his scalp, but he had replaced it with a shaved cross in the back of his head. This was in case the vampire tried sneaking up behind him. The only benefit to the situation was that the people here would remember 2-Way, not the two normal-looking men who’d arrived with him.

Buford had been right about the Hummel. Cutesy angels, children, and animals filled the table. Surprisingly, the seller was male. Merrimon had expected to find some old biddy trying to prune knickknacks from her collection.

“Hello,” the skinny, white-haired man said in a cheerful voice. “Hummel fans?”

Buford, examining the figures, made a pleased ‘uh huh’ sound. “My Ma loves ‘em.”

“I hope you find something good.” He turned to Merrimon. “Are you also looking for Hummel?”

“Not personally,” the former minister answered. “I’m simply keeping him company. I must say, you have an impressive collection here, sir.”

“They were my late wife’s.”

“Oh, pardon me. They must bring you painful memories.”

“Not at all,” he replied in his perky tone. “Do I detect a touch of the South in your voice?”

The old man was observant. “Indeed you do. I’m from Georgia. Marietta.” He’d visited his Sloane cousins there often enough to supply details, if needed. “Are you from the South, also?”

“No, I’m from Pennsylvania originally. My neighbors next door, though, come from North Carolina. Their accent bears a resemblance to yours.”

“Oh?” Merrimon hoped his voice sounded casual. “I used to live with kin up thataways.”

“The Chapel Hill area?”

He moved back slightly, hoping that his baseball cap covered his face. “No, Gastonia. Near Charlotte.”

“Too bad. One of Eleanor’s grandchildren was a professor there. I thought she might know you.”

“Ah. Well, it’s a big state.”

The old man winked. “Eleanor’s a real firebrand. I’m thinking about remarriage, and I don’t want her bothered by constant reminders of my first wife. I can enjoy rebuilding the collection with her.”

He couldn’t believe his bad luck. The old geezer was in love with the vampire’s grandmother. “I guess that would be more romantic.”

The geezer chuckled. “I hope she thinks so, too. What brings you all the way to California?”

“Marriage gone sour. No kids, thank God. I came out here to get away for a while.”

Buford broke in, clutching two figurines. “I wanna get these. You have any bubble wrap?”

“I certainly do.”

Buford got back in the car, happy as could be. Ma would be really pleased when she got her mail. She didn’t get a lot of presents since his father had left. Uncle Wilbur wasn’t happy about the delay, but a few minutes wouldn’t make that much of a difference. It would be daytime for several more hours.

This time, his uncle drove. 2-Way wisely kept his mouth shut, even when they had to make another U-turn. A tingle of excitement filled Buford when they turned onto Forest Trail. The vampire was close. He could feel it.

They made a long, slow loop on Forest Trail. The vampire’s house looked like all the other houses in the neighborhood, made of some sort of golden stucco with a red tile roof. The doors were all covered by archways and there were some skinny trees planted along the sides, making it look Italian. One of the garage doors was open, so Buford slid down in his seat. Uncle Wilbur continued the loop until they came back out on White Oak and parked the car under a tree. “They shouldn’t see the car from here,” he said. “If things go south at the house, we can cut across and make a quick getaway.”

They donned their hunting vests. One chest pocket of each vest held stakes, the other held a short hammer. The side pocket closest to the wearer’s gun hand held a squirt gun loaded with holy water, and the other pocket was stuffed with garlic bulbs. This left no place for their regular guns, so they were forced to conceal them elsewhere in their clothing.

The vests were camouflage, which would have been great in the woods but didn’t particularly help them on the sidewalk. Buford felt like everyone was staring at them as they walked towards the house, even though the street and walkways were deserted. He self-consciously tugged his vest down over the gun in the small of his back and felt the pistol slip. Maybe he shouldn’t have loosened his belt after breakfast.

Halfway into the cul-de-sac, Uncle Wilbur climbed over the low-set iron fence and into the vampire’s lawn, not that it was much of one. None of the grass was green, and most of it just stuck up in poufs from between rocks. “We’re going to go in on different sides so we can flank them. 2-Way, you go in through the garage and seal off that exit. There’s probably someone there, so have your gun ready.”

“What do I do with ‘em?”

“Bring ‘em on inside. We don’t want anyone to get away and call the police. Buford, follow me.”

The trek up the hill was long. The houses were set further apart here than in the front portion of the community, and the terrain was rougher. The two went around the side of the building and discovered that the rear area was enclosed by tall stucco walls and shrubbery. Buford peeked through the wrought-iron gate at the back. Flagstone steps led up to the house, which had a back porch instead of a front porch. It was a fancy one, too, with columns instead of posts.

His uncle tapped his shoulder. “There’s another stairway near that door up there. It looks like it goes to that balcony on the second floor. You take the stairs and I’ll take the door.”

“But she’s not up there,” Buford whispered. “At least, I don’t think she is.”

Merrimon hesitated, then nodded curtly. “You’re probably right, but we need to round up the people guarding her. 2-Way is probably already inside. We need to hurry.”

The gate wasn’t locked, which was helpful. They climbed the steps to the back patio. Azaleas bracketed a rectangular fountain and an outdoor Jacuzzi. A free-standing fireplace sat closer to the house, and both stopped for a moment.

“I bet you could do a real good barbecue on that,” Buford said.

“Shh.” They went around the lounge chairs and up the stairs to the porch. Uncle Wilbur moved up to the side door and motioned Buford up the stairs. The young man obeyed, listening and looking carefully for vampire relatives. The coolness of the covered deck was a relief after the heat of the sun. He turned and looked down for his uncle. Merrimon held up one finger, and then two. Three fingers, and both went through their respective entrances.

Buford found himself in a corridor. The door closest to him was closed, and he pressed an ear to it. No sound. He knew instinctively that the vampire wasn’t there. An inner fluttering of excitement, anticipation even, told him she was nearby and below his feet. Maybe Uncle Wilbur would find her first. He hoped somebody else would find her first.

The next door was quiet, too. He crept along the pale wall, marveling at the ironwork in the windows and the exposed beams. No one he knew had a house like this.

Ahead, he heard the sound of scrubbing. Someone else was up here after all. Buford reached behind him, feeling for the butt of the gun. His fingers located the metal, gripped, then slipped. Now the gun was poking him in the rear end and he couldn’t grasp it.

He fumbled with the vest and pulled out the only other weapon he had left for a non-vampire. Gripping the stake firmly, he continued down the hall. The scrubbing had stopped.

A red-haired head poked out of the door. “Hey!” The rest of the body followed, holding a toilet brush in one hand and a bottle of cleaner in the other.

Crap! It was the vampire’s brother. Buford held up his stake in a threatening manner. “Keep quiet and I won’t hurt you.”

The brother raised his voice. “Hey! Hey, everybody, Buford Burford is up here. He’s threatening me with a pointed stick!”

“Shut up!”

Christophe got even louder instead. “Call Security! Call the police!”

Panicked, Buford lunged at Christophe. Christophe raised the bottle of cleaner, designed to squirt under the toilet rim (a marketing ploy developed by anals for anals) and directed the stream into Buford’s face.

“Mnaaahhh!” Buford closed his eyes in time, but the vaporous, viscous fluid stung at their corners, burned around his nostrils. A punch to his jaw stunned him, followed by a blow to his head. He dropped to his knees and scrambled away blindly. Hands seized him and shoved, and suddenly there was no ground under him. He was falling down a flight of stairs. It hurt.

When he stopped falling, he wiped his face and opened his eyes. They stung, but he needed to be able to see. He was sprawled on the landing between stairs. Above, he could hear footsteps; below, he could hear shouting. One of the voices was 2-Way’s. Buford grabbed the banisters and pulled himself to his feet. He headed the rest of the way down. Maybe 2-Way could help him with the brother.

The hallway below was open and sunlit. Directly ahead of him was a large room filled with bookshelves. Not paperbacks, either. They had the big books with the long titles. There was also a table with books and a desk with a computer. A long wall with windows extended to his right. It looked like it was part of the dining room. A door was to his left, where the hallway turned the corner. The sounds were coming from that direction, so Buford headed towards them.

This part of the hallway was darker. A tremor shot through Buford. The vampire was close! He looked back and forth at the doors. Where was she?

The door closest to the end of the hall burst open and 2-Way came stumbling into the hallway, face and shoulders covered in red paint. He was followed by a wiry wraith wearing protective glasses and a mask. Buford shrieked in mortal fear.

“You!” the wraith shouted, and dropped the canister. It was the teenager. She backed into the garage and Buford wondered if she were scared, too. Then she reappeared brandishing a garden trowel, one of the long-handled ones that was supposed to save your lower back.

The stakes they’d bought at Home Depot weren’t very intimidating. He wished his gun hadn’t dropped down the back of his pants. How did the criminals on TV get them to stay up? “Stand back,” Buford hollered, hoping that his voice wouldn’t crack. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Hah!” The girl lunged forward, jabbing the trowel his way. He twisted aside in time, but only barely. Behind her, 2-Way was wiping paint out of his eyes, leaving him on his own.

His mama had raised him to never hit a girl. He knew he shouldn’t be fighting with a girl now, but vampire hunting seemed to have different rules.

Buford threw the stake at her. The girl swatted it out of the air and advanced. He edged further away, backing towards the door, shaking his pant leg in the hopes that the gun would drop out. “Don’t make me hurt you.” The threat might have held more water if his back hadn’t hit the far wall just then. He scuttled to his left, towards the library. She lunged at him, holding the trowel like a spear.

“Hold it right there!” 2-Way, eyes finally clear of paint, stood behind the girl with his gun pointed at her head. “Drop the shovel and get on the floor.”

“No, you get on the floor!” a voice shouted from beyond Buford. He saw the vampire’s brother at the bottom of the stairs. He was holding a revolver. “Do it, or we’ll all find out how well Grandpa’s gun fires.”

Merrimon, entering through the other door, also found himself in a hallway. The first door he opened led to a large bedroom, an empty one. He closed it and moved on to the next one. This door opened to a pantry, and he passed through it to the kitchen. The old lady was there, beyond the island in the center of the room. He raised his gun. She grabbed a skillet.

“Do what I say and you won’t get hurt,” Merrimon said.

“Bull!” The old lady dropped behind the island.

“Don’t make this harder than it has to be. I don’t want to shoot you.” Meanwhile, he aimed the pistol along the edge of the marble top.

“You killed Cynthia,” Grandma screamed. “You started all this!”

“And I’m sorry about that, ma’am.” He dropped the gun, leveling it against the wood-veneer cabinet. “But now she’s become a creature of the devil. She needs to be set free.”

“Then go away and leave us be. We were out of your life. No one asked you to follow us.”

Merrimon pointed his weapon towards the prissy voice. The bullet should punch through the cabinets with no problem. “God led me here, ma’am.” He squeezed the trigger.

Buford didn’t like this situation at all. Christophe Leach held the revolver in both hands, aiming it at 2-Way’s chest. 2-Way was holding his pistol sideways, pointing it at Christophe’s head. Buford was between both guns, and he was stuck beside the girl, who was glaring at him and bouncing the trowel impatiently.

A big kaboom from the other side of the house broke everyone’s concentration. Christophe’s gun went off with a large bang and he stepped backwards. 2-Way’s gun fired, and the kick sent it flying out of his hand. The girl made a peeping noise and dove for the floor. Buford covered his head and ran for the door.

Merrimon cursed. No one had told him that kitchen islands were solid in the middle. His shot had blown open the cabinet on his side, spilling pans onto the floor. Based on the spray of water splattering the room, he must have plugged the dishwasher or the sink. He ran around the island to see if the woman had been hit and fell over the open door of the dishwasher. He picked himself up in time to see the old lady grab the telephone off its cradle and disappear into the pantry.

Shins burning, he charged after her into the hallway. He didn’t see the old lady, which was a bad sign. He limped down the long gallery that lined the dining room, headed for the far end of the house. If the three of them regrouped, perhaps they could regain control of the situation.

Alas, Merrimon’s hopes were dashed when he saw the vampire’s brother standing in the open doorway, brandishing a gun. “And don’t come back!”

The ex-minister slowed down, raised his gun to fire. At least he could take out one of the guardians.

Wham! Something hard and sharp-edged struck his legs, and he was on the ground again. This was followed by a heavy blow to his shoulder, shock traveling all the way down his arm.

He rolled out of the way as the teenage girl brought the heavy trowel down again. The brother had turned and was coming towards them. “You!”

Desperation moved Merrimon’s feet when his will wouldn’t. He half-crawled, half-ran to the French doors and stumbled out into the front courtyard. Scrambling over the low brick border, he let himself roll down the hill to the street. The asphalt scraped his already tender skin. Staggering up, expecting to be shot any moment, he saw the Aztek heading towards him. He pulled open the back door and fell into the seat. 2-Way pulled out of the cul-de-sac and hit the gas when they turned onto White Oak. Sirens echoed in the distance, growing louder.

Cynthia had slept well that day. She’d visited Imogene the night before and had come home with a tummy full of blood. Her sleep had been the deep, dark, dreamless type.

She awoke to the sound of strange voices outside her room. Sitting up, she listened carefully. Yes, several strange voices outside her room, including disembodied ones only found on radios or walkie-talkies. From what she could pick up from the conversation, they were police or rescue workers. What was going on? What had happened to her family?

Part of her wanted to rush outside, to learn if her loved ones were okay. But it wasn’t possible. An unexplained member of the household popping out of a storage room would probably make them suspicious, and might even lead to her detainment. She would have to learn what had happened some other way.

Josie had formed a symbiotic relationship with her cell phone since Cynthia had presented her with it. If she were breathing, she’d be carrying it. Scanning the room, Cynthia spotted her own cell on the bedstand. She quietly picked it up and began to text:

RU OK?

The response was immediate:

OK.

She had to stop herself from sighing aloud with relief.

SUP?

BIG MESS. STAY PUT.

Cynthia had already gathered that much. She waited, listening to the voices, trying to make out words.

“Get a couple of shots here, then go to the kitchen.”

The click of a camera. Another click, then footsteps moving away. Why did they need to take pictures in the kitchen? More importantly:

GRANDMA?

OK.

Cynthia heaved another silent sigh of relief. Then; BRO?

OK.

If her family was all right, the rest could wait. She didn’t want her messaging to bring attention to Josie. Cynthia crept across to the wardrobe and eased the door open. The storage space had made an excellent bedroom for her, but it didn’t have closets.

She was sitting on the bed fully dressed when her phone beeped.

CST CLR. Then; B QT.

Cynthia crossed to the door and cracked it open. Josie peered in at her. The reddish marks on the teen’s face startled her before she realized that it was paint. More red decorated the edges of her goggles, shoved up into the dark curls on top of her head.

“Act like you just got home,” she whispered. “On foot.”

She nodded and stepped out, locking the door behind her. Smudges of red paint marred the white drywall finish of the hallway. When they reached the front door, Cynthia stopped and stared at the obvious bullet hole in the wall next to it.

“What happened?”

“Some guys tried to do a home invasion. Two of them were the assholes from that rest area in Arizona, the other was the guy who blew out my windshield.” Josie placed one hand on her hip and fixed her dark eyes on Cynthia’s. “Who are those guys?”

“Later.” They began to walk down the gallery adjoining the dining room. “What happened in the kitchen?”

“Oh, nothing. Someone just tried to kill Grandma, that’s all.”

She stopped walking and grabbed Josie’s arm. “Kill her?”

“You’re hurting me. She’s okay. I hope you didn’t plan on showering. The prick shot the water line in the dishwasher and I had to cut off the water to the entire house. Grandma is trying to get someone to come do an emergency job.”

“Sorry about the arm. Are the police still here?”

“A few of them. Bitch Bishop stopped by, too, but they wouldn’t let her in.”

“Oh, wonderful. Something else for her to complain about.”

Two policemen were in the kitchen. One squatted near the dishwasher, while the other yelled at Grandma. Grandma was yelling back. They had to shout; Christophe was busily running a wet-dry vacuum behind them.

“Merrimon,” Grandma shouted. “M-E-R-R-I-M-O-N. We took out a restraining order against him in North Carolina.”

“Where?”

“North Carolina!” Cynthia yelled.

They all turned to look at her, even Christophe. He shut off the vacuum.

“Thank you.” She addressed the officer. “I’m Cynthia Leach. Robert Merrimon began stalking me when we lived in Carrsboro, North Carolina. Eventually, his harassment extended to my entire family. We filed the restraining order there.”

“Hello, Ms. Leach. I’m Gordon Sloane. Have you filed an order on him here as well?”

“Professor Leach. No, I thought it would stop when we moved. I certainly believed that the security in this gated community would keep him away, even if he did follow me.”

The officer nodded. “I understand the gates were open today for a garage sale.”

“That’s where I’ve been,” Cynthia said. She looked around at the damage and shook her head. “I don’t know whether my presence at the house would have made matters better or worse.”

“It could have gone either way,” Sloane said. “Did you purchase anything at the sale?”

“No,” she replied quickly. “After getting rid of so many things for the move, it just didn’t seem right to start loading up the house again.”

Sloane asked other pertinent questions about the restraining order. The other officer finished going over the kitchen, and the two policemen departed.

While they waited for the plumber, Grandma called out for Chinese food. “When the going gets tough, the tough order egg drop.”

They sat down in the living room. Everyone was quiet for a short time as the day’s events sank in. Cynthia felt horrible. Grandma, Christophe, and Josie could have been killed while she, unknowing, slept the sleep of the undead. What if, next time, she awoke to discover that someone had been murdered?

Her brother stood up. “I’m going to go clean up the mess in the hallway. Otherwise, it’ll get tracked everywhere.”

“Sometimes the tough clean,” Josie quipped. She pulled herself out of her slumping position in the comfy chair. “You haven’t answered my question yet. Who were those guys?”

“I don’t know the new guy, but the other two are the Reverend W. Robert Merrimon and his nephew, Buford Burford. They’re–” Cynthia hesitated, unwilling to relate the entire sordid story. “They’re vampire hunters. They followed us here from North Carolina.”

“I didn’t know North Carolina had vampire hunters.”

“These men are self-employed,” Grandma said.

“But they’ve taken on help,” Cynthia added. “I first saw the new guy when they tried shooting me in the campus parking lot, so he’s probably from here.”

“Merrimon must have a charm that’s lost on me, then.” Grandma rubbed a furrow between her eyes. “I still don’t know how they found out where we live, or how they got in. I have a standing order with Security to turn them away.”

Josie covered her face. “Shit! This is my fault.”

“This isn’t a cussing occasion, dear,” Grandma admonished. “How could it be your fault?”

The teen parted her hands, revealing her mouth. “It was my brilliant suggestion to have the giant yard sale. They’ve had the gates open all day! I almost got us killed.”

“Argh,” Cynthia said. “I didn’t even think about that when we were at the meeting. Of course, I didn’t realize that they’d found out where we lived.”

Josie stood up, rubbing her eyes. They were suddenly wet. “I really screwed up. I can leave before I do something worse.”

Grandma and Cynthia both stood as well. “Don’t be silly. You were just trying to help the other ladies. If not today, those men would have found a way to get in here some other day.”

“I just feel so stupid.”

“Don’t,” Cynthia said. “They’re here after me. You shouldn’t have to deal with people trying to break into your house. It’s my fault.”

“Girls, let’s close the self-condemnation society meeting. We need to think about what we should do now.” The older woman’s voice was firm. “We’re going to have the plumbing fixed, and I’m going to call Monday and see if I can get another restraining order here against Merrimon. If you really want to help, I’d suggest planning a trip to Home Depot. Someone needs to fix that bullet hole next to the door.”

The next twenty-four hours were spent in repairing damage to the house. Josie applied spackling paste around the door, Cynthia painted primer over the paint smudges 2-Way had left near the garage, and Grandma paid the plumber an exorbitant fee for doing repairs on a weekend. Christophe cleaned, of course.

Sunday night, Cynthia sat down with Grandma in her study for a private discussion.

“I’ve been thinking about everything that happened yesterday. Maybe we should move again.” If they were forced to relocate, that didn’t mean she had failed as a professor… did it? “They know where we are; and like you said, if they want to get in, they’ll find a way.”

Grandma patted her hand. “That’s very noble of you, dear, but we can’t.”

“I’m sure we could break the covenant. Isn’t there a trial period? I bet Heather Bishop would be glad to help.”

“It’s a probationary period. I’m certain Mrs. Bishop would load the moving van herself. It doesn’t matter, though. We can’t afford to move.”

Surely Grandma was wrong. She had her retirement money, and there were two working adults in the household. “I suppose Christophe and I don’t have to quit our jobs. We could relocate to Costa Mesa or someplace like that. I could sleep in my car trunk to cut out the commute time.”

“Dear.” Her grandmother gripped her wrist. “We still don’t have enough money. I don’t think you realize how much this house cost.”

“But… we were able to apply the money we got from our house in North Carolina to the expense of this one. I’m sure we could sell this one at a profit to somebody who doesn’t have a vampire in the family.”

“That sounds logical, but it’s not the case. This house was on the market for over a year; I got a bargain on it. The previous owners were just grateful that they didn’t have to pay two mortgages any more.”

“Weren’t there–I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but weren’t there any other houses of this size that were less expensive?”

“No offense taken. I don’t think that you understand how the town of Irvine is laid out. It was planned from the beginning as a village community with easy access. Even in places where vehicle entry is regulated, there are plenty of walkways for pedestrian traffic. The crime rate here is low, so there never was a need for a large selection of walled communities. Most of the ones that exist now were developed for celebrities or the wealthy. I bought what we could afford, because our safety was worth the cost.”

Cynthia mulled over the situation late into the night, even while she and Christophe were in the observatory taking measurements. Her brother, usually the talkative sibling, was too busy brooding to break up the silence. She figured the last thing he wanted to talk about was their future in Irvine, but he was her partner, her right arm at the University. Bringing in a paycheck was their job, and the money was more necessary than she’d believed.

“Eric will be filling in for Franck tomorrow.” Her voice sounded thin in the high-domed space, and just a little whiny.

“Uh-huh.”

“Seligsohn is going to do Tuesday and Thursday, and Al-Aswad is taking his other lectures,” she continued.

“Uh-huh.”

“It would help if you looked at me. I’m trying to have a conversation.”

He sighed and turned. She noted that his hazel eyes were bloodshot. He probably hadn’t been sleeping well since the breakup, and no one in the family had slept much last night. “That’s all of them, isn’t it? Is there a lab you need me to cover?”

“No, that’s all of them. It just puts me–us–in bad standing with the rest of the department. Everybody else is covering for me.”

“They’re covering for him. He’s the one wanting the time off.”

“It still looks bad. We can’t afford to look bad.”

“I don’t really care how we look. I’m sorry, but I don’t particularly care about anything at the moment.”

“I know. I’m sorry, too.” She left the telescope and rested her hand on his shoulder. “Maybe you’d feel better if you talked about it.”

“What were you saying about your standing in the department?”

Rebuffed, she withdrew the hand and sat down in the other chair. “Grandma says that we can’t afford to relocate again. Our house here took all our resources.”

“I know. I’ve been running the numbers backwards and forward in my head since yesterday. There’s no way we can do it.”

“If we can’t move, it makes keeping my job–both our jobs–all the more important. I can’t work days. What else can we do to improve things?”

“What does Eric say?”

“I wouldn’t know.” Cynthia leaned against the table and rubbed the spot where nose met eyebrows. “Last week, I explained to him that I was a lesbian.”

“Oh. Yeah, figured you would do that.”

She wondered if Christophe and Dylan had talked about it behind her back or if it had been obvious to everyone but her. “I wish people would warn me about this stuff. Anyway, I don’t think he’s going to be as interested in my continued presence in the department.”

“No, I don’t think so either.”

“Maybe I can find other ways to be helpful,” Cynthia said. “I should go over the schedule, see who does what when.”

“I can tell you one place already,” Christophe said. “Midterms are this week.”

“Crap, that’s right. I haven’t even finished making up the test yet.”

“Not just that. The offices have been packed with students needing help. I’ve even gotten some of the spillover.”

“You think I should extend my office hours?”

“Not just that.”

Monday night, Cynthia entered the tutoring room. The room was full; midterm anxiety was in full blossom. Nenita was bent over a table with one student, trying to explain the laws of thermodynamics. A line of students stood behind her, glaring impatiently.

Cynthia tapped the lead student on the shoulder. “I’m Professor Leach. May I help you?”

“Yeah, you can!” The student began a diatribe about short staff and limited time, but Cynthia cut him off. “That’s why I’m here. Why don’t you show me what’s giving you trouble?” There was no point in lecturing him about waiting till the last minute to seek help. He’d learn foresight on his own, or move to another major where he would no longer be their problem.

Nenita glanced up, surprised, then returned to her current pupil with an expression of relief on her face. The line broke up and reformed into two smaller ones.

At nine-thirty, the allotted time for the session to end, the room was still half full. Small groups of students clustered together, covering the same sections of the physics text, but there were still some singletons working out especially thorny principles.

Cynthia turned to Nenita, who looked exhausted. “Why don’t you go on, Nena? I’m still good to go for a while. I hate to stop them while they’re actually learning.”

Nenita smiled. “That’d be great, Professor. Thanks.”

After dinner with the Chenaults, Merrimon asked Buford and 2-Way to join him in the room they were using to hatch their assault schemes. Reverend Chenault smiled as the three left the room. Since 2-Way’s first encounter with the vampire, he’d spent a lot more time reading the Bible and attending church services. Chenault, who had begun hinting that Merrimon find his own place, now considered Merrimon a beneficial influence.

Their raid on the vampire house had been a total rout. The Reverend knew his assistants were not among the best and brightest, but he hadn’t expected events to turn into the disaster they had become. They had to do some serious cleanup before they returned to Compton, and Mr. King had refused to take back the Aztek until they showed him that the red marks were paint, not blood.

Another opportunity like the one God had given them was unlikely to recur. Merrimon had racked his brains trying to find another way to gain access to the house. He’d finally thought of one, and felt like a fool for not coming up with it before.

Once the door was closed, Merrimon imparted his good news. “I’ve developed Plan B.”

“I hope it works better than Plan A.”

“Plan A would have worked better if they didn’t have patrols there during the daytime. In Plan B, we’re gonna use a little more finesse. The plan I have requires one of us to take a great risk.” Merrimon tried not to sigh as he turned to Buford. ‘Finesse’ was not the word he would normally use in conjunction with his nephew. “Buford, you need to apply for a job with the company that does the lawn maintenance for that neighborhood.”

“Do they have those mowers you stand up on?”

The ex-Reverend could feel his blood pressure rising. Damn, the boy made him endure some unchristian feelings. “I have no idea. That’s not the point. The point is, you’re our best bet to get back into Slippery Elm.”

“Mowing lawns?”

“It’ll make good cover. You ride in with the lawn equipment, carrying one stake. When you get the chance, you sneak into the vampire’s house and get her.”

“Won’t those people stop me again?”

“That’s the beauty of going in on a regular basis. You’ll be able to check out the house each day, and go in when no one is there.”

“Oh.” Buford’s expression brightened, then fell again. “What if the guard recognizes me? He saw us that first time.”

“Of the three of us, you’re the one he paid the least attention to. Our friend 2-Way was driving, and I was doing the talking.” Merrimon didn’t add that the lawn company might do a background check on its applicants. If he were one of those rich ducks, he knew he’d expect criminal-free lawn care. He was fairly certain 2-Way had a record. Chenault had been clear about his nephew’s non-law-abiding background. His own record wasn’t spotless, either, thanks to those evil women. He had a restraining order and possible murder charges on file back in North Carolina because of their foul seductions.

He clapped his hands on Buford’s shoulders. “You’re our best shot at stopping her evil, Buford. Don’t you want to avenge your cousin? Stop the vampire from destroying another little girl like mine?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Good man.”

After class on Tuesday, Cynthia returned home and plopped down on the couch next to her grandmother. After a moment, she hugged her.

“You’re in a good mood,” Grandma said.

“I just feel like I’m making a contribution at last to the department. I offered to proctor two of the evening midterms for other professors, and they accepted. Now that the sun is setting earlier, I can do some of these things. After the time shift in November, I should be able to do even more.”

“That does sound good.” The old woman reached over and patted Cynthia’s cheek. “I’m glad to see that you’re cheering up, dear. I know it’s been very hard for you.”

Yes, it had been hard. She’d begun to seriously wonder if she would have to give up all her dreams for the future. Dylan had been forced to give up his dreams, although he seemed to have survived the experience, finding other avenues for his talents. She wasn’t as certain she could give up teaching.

“We’ve all suffered together. Look, there’s something else I’d like to do. How would you feel about having guests for an evening?” Cynthia asked.

Grandma frowned. “Guests?”

“I’d like to have some of the Astro people come over Sunday for a small gathering. I’ve looked at the community regulations, and we could have about a dozen people without needing to file for access to the clubhouse. You know we couldn’t get permission from Heather.”

“Do you think that’s wise? We were attacked only a few days ago. Having strange people in the house might upset Josie. I’m not sure the kitchen will be shipshape by Sunday, either.”

“Josie has done just fine so far with strangers. You’re talking about someone who rode with me cross-country and moved right in with us. I haven’t noticed much anxiety on her part. As for the kitchen… has Christophe made up with Dylan?”

“No, he’s still venting his frustration through better cleaning.”

“Put him in charge of getting the kitchen in order. It’ll give him something to focus on.”

“I suppose we can manage it. What about Herman? I invited him over on Sunday.”

Cynthia smiled. “Have him come, too. I’m sure he misses the academic setting. Oh, I will be inviting my boss, too. Maybe I can finally get on his good side.”

She composed some invitations on the computer after everyone went to bed and dropped them off at the office before heading to the physical sciences classroom building. One of her students was working there tonight. She would deliver his invitation personally.

Zhou Hao looked up, startled, as she entered the lab. “It’s all right.” Cynthia waited until he had finished assisting the pupils at one of the stations before approaching him. “I had some free time and thought I should come help out,” she said quietly. “Since I’m usually tied up during the day.”

Zhou nodded, but shifted nervously.

“I’m here to help you,” Cynthia assured him. “Not to grade you or report back to your advisor. Why don’t I just go around and check on the various stations?”

“Um… okay.” Zhou nodded again.

“By the way,” she added, handing him an envelope, “I’m having a dinner party at my house on Sunday. We’d love it if you came. Bring your telescope.”

The rest of the week passed without incident. The replacement glass for Josie’s car came and was installed, leading to talks of a maiden voyage in the repaired, freshly-painted vehicle. Josie had chosen a bright red to replace the mustard yellow shade that had seemed so dirty.

On Saturday, Cynthia and Imogene spent the evening visiting bars in Costa Mesa. Midterms were nearly ready to begin, and Imogene explained that she wanted to enjoy herself before getting buried in serious study. It didn’t take long for Cynthia to realize that this was where her natural prey was going on the weekends. She noted it for future reference.

They scheduled their next date for the following Saturday. Imogene preferred Friday, but Cynthia explained that the family would be taking Josie out for her birthday.

Imogene perked up at this. “That sounds like fun. I’d love to join you.”

“I don’t think that’d be a good idea. She’s making a party of it and inviting the guests herself.”

“You’ve never introduced me to your family,” her girlfriend pouted. “Are you ashamed of me?”

“No,” Cynthia lied. She wasn’t quite ashamed, but Imogene’s smoking, pushiness, and constant talk about astrology would embarrass her in front of her family.

She also didn’t want to tell Imogene that when they had been planning the party, Josie had turned down Grandma’s suggestion of inviting Cynthia’s girlfriend. Only her personal friends and family members should be invited to her party.

The house was already filled with the aromas of cooking when she awoke the following evening. Cynthia dressed and entered the kitchen, where Grandma was taking a mini-muffin pan out of the oven.

“Mmm, quiche bites,” Cynthia said. “Ham or spinach?”

“Ham,” Josie answered. Wonder of wonders, the teen was peeling carrots for a vegetable tray. “I told her I wouldn’t eat the leftovers if they were spinach.”

“I doubt there will be leftovers, dear,” Grandma replied with a smile.

“Yeah, but you need quality control, too. From an unbiased source. And I have a bias against spinach.”

Cynthia left them and stepped outside to check the night sky. Yes, it was as clear as the Weather Channel had promised. The air was cool, but not so cold that the evening’s viewing wouldn’t be enjoyable.

The stargazing party would begin on an auspicious note. She’d invited over her students and several of the faculty. Most of the latter had declined–whether from reticence or true previous engagements, she wasn’t sure–but several, including Franck, had said they would be glad to come. Surprisingly, Eric had also said he would attend.

The only person whose absence bothered her was Hargrave’s. She’d left an invitation in his box with a handwritten note suggesting that it would be a good opportunity to get to know each other, but he had begged off at the last minute. He might have a legitimate excuse, but Cynthia suspected that he was either still angry about the way she and Eric had maneuvered around his machinations, or didn’t want to come to the same social function Franck would be attending. Oh, well, no help for that now. Maybe she could try again after the time change.

Cynthia returned to the kitchen to help with the final preparations, and found Josie dumping jars of salsa into a bowl. Her grandmother was arranging the vegetables into pleasant shapes on the tray. “What hasn’t been done yet?”

“You could get the cheese out and cut it now. It should be all right.”

A half hour later, the call came from Security that her guests were beginning to arrive. Cynthia had provided a list of approved names, with descriptions, for the evening man. She didn’t want Merrimon to have any chance of sneaking in again.

Yoon, an astronomy fellow, had brought his own telescope, as had Eric. They assembled them beside Cynthia’s in the back yard, well away from the roof edge and the local light pollution.

“Nice scope,” Yoon said, looking over Cynthia’s Celestron. “I want to get one of those when I grow up.”

Cynthia laughed. “She’s my baby.”

Josie and Grandma came out of the kitchen onto the patio. Grandma set a tray with cheese and crackers on the table while Josie waited behind her with a stack of appetizer plates and a wad of napkins.

Yoon forgot about the scopes at the sight of free food. “They look like they have their hands full. I’m going to go help them.”

Help yourself, more likely, Cynthia thought as she took over calibrating his Skyview. Headlights flickered along the side of the house as the next car arrived. It pulled in behind Gleason’s Beemer, and four students tumbled out.

Soon, the driveway was full of cars and people were clustered in twos and threes around each of the telescopes. Christophe was inside showing Franck how he translated astronomical data into tables and graphs, and Josie was shyly talking to a pair of undergrads.

A strident voice broke into the buzz of conversation. “Hey! When do I get my turn?”

“Herman!” Grandma said cheerfully. “Come on over here. Cynthia’s having a stargazing session with the students right now.”

“Oh, I see.” Herman joined Grandma on the patio and soon declared himself the official punch server. Cynthia had to admit that the two did seem to make a natural pair. What if they married? Would Grandma move in with him, or would he sell his house and move in with them? What would he say when he discovered that one of his step-grandchildren was a vampire? She couldn’t imagine being able to keep that a secret if he moved in with them.

Before long, some other neighbors joined the party, people she had never met.

“Anita McCallum,” a pantsuited woman said. “And this is Mike, my husband.” Anita’s hair was a little too russet to be natural.

Mike, on the other hand, had a salt-and-pepper buzz cut. He mumbled rather than said hello.

“We didn’t crash your party to be rude, of course,” Anita assured Cynthia. “But things looked so interesting over here that we just had to come and see. Is this an astronomy club?”

“No, these are mostly students and some of the faculty from the Astronomy department at the University,” Cynthia said. “I thought it would be nice to have them over for a stargazing session before midterms started.”

“That’s wonderful,” Anita said. “Having an intellectual gathering instead of another excuse to get drunk. Isn’t that wonderful, Mike?”

Mike mumbled again.

Cynthia smiled innocently. “It’s been my experience that the two are not mutually exclusive. Would you like to see the planet Jupiter, or have a beer first?”

“Bwah-hah-hah!” Mike brayed. “You’re all right. Let’s get a couple of beers and belly up to one of those telescopes.”

As the two ambled away with a pair of longnecks, Grandma nudged Cynthia. “You handled that well.”

“Thanks. I’m going to go join the others now. I haven’t gotten many chances to use my scope tonight.”

Eric joined her by the Celestron. “Having a good time?”

“Yes. And you?”

“Yes.”

She felt awkward. It was the first time they’d really spoken since she’d explained that she wasn’t interested in him. “I’m glad you could make it tonight. I was afraid you’d be angry with me.”

He shrugged and his face picked up a brighter glow in the dark. He must be blushing again. “I was, sort of, at the beginning. But it’s not like I’d asked you out or anything. I’m just glad you headed me off at the pass.”

“So to speak?” Cynthia joked, laughing. She broke it off when she saw a final vehicle approaching the house. It started to climb the crowded driveway, then backed up and turned sharply to park on the curb. Oh no, Cynthia thought when she recognized the anemic tree logo on the side.

Oh, yes. It was a security guard coming up the hill. She forced a smile on her lips and moved to intercept.

The heavyset man returned the forced smile. “Hello, ma’am. I’m Joe Coffman from Security. You folks having a party?”

“Yes and no. These are people from my department,” Cynthia said, gesturing to the figures at the telescopes. “I had them come over for a hands-on session. We’ll be going inside soon for a late supper, so this part won’t be going on much longer.”

“It looks like fun,” Coffman said, “but we’ve had a complaint call about noise and traffic congestion.”

“I’ll bet I know who called, too,” Grandma snapped, appearing at Cynthia’s elbow. “Heather Bishop, right?”

Cynthia interrupted, speaking in her most soothing voice. “We regret bothering you. We can try to hold it down if our looking through telescopes is making too much noise. I don’t think there will be any more problems with traffic–everyone’s here, and their cars all fit into the driveway.”

“If a party is going to have more than fifteen attendees, you’re supposed to host it at the clubhouse.”

Cynthia looked around. “There’s only fourteen visitors here, including Mr. Bauer and the McCallums, who are residents. The McCallums simply dropped by to see what was going on.”

Coffman squinted at the group. “Maybe she was counting them by mistake. Oh, well... could you keep it down a bit?”

“Of course.”

As Coffman returned to his car, Grandma expelled her breath in a long hiss. “That Bishop woman! I don’t know what her problem is, but I’m going to give her one if she doesn’t stop this harassment.”

Cynthia dreaded getting up the next evening. She wasn’t disappointed; as soon as she sat down at the table with her coffee, Grandma slapped down the citation on the table in front of her.

“She’s getting more inventive, that’s all I’ll say.”

Cynthia studied the triplicate form. Her eyes widened. “Conducting an outdoor function after 9 PM?”

“Your little get-together last night. She can’t cite us for having a party without notice, because the group was too small, so she’s redefining it as a noise disturbance. And that’s not all. Read this.” Grandma unfolded a sheet of Slippery Elm letterhead with a trembling hand. “This is a reminder that we’re still on probation here.”

“I guess we’re going to be the guests of honor at another homeowners’ meeting,” Cynthia said. “Wednesday, right?”

“She doesn’t give one much time to prepare a defense, that’s for sure.”

As before, Cynthia awoke after her family had departed for the homeowners’ meeting. Outdoors was sticky and warm–it looked like some rain had fallen that afternoon–but it didn’t prepare Cynthia for the wave of heat that met her at the door. The air conditioning and ceiling fans labored at full speed, but it barely made a dent in the scent of sweat and human bodies filling the meeting room.

Eager eyes followed as she approached the empty seat her family had kept open for her. “Large crowd,” she murmured to Christophe.

“They smell blood in the water.”

The business portion of the meeting seemed to take forever, although Cynthia’s watch claimed a mere forty minutes. City and state restrictions on outdoor fires were reviewed for the benefit of new residents, including the Chambers family. Joni reported on the profits from the Last Yard Sale of the Year and Gerald described the amount of transportation expenses and bottled water it would provide for the Slippery Eels. The water bill for common landscaping was presented.

When their turn came, Heather seemed contrite. “I must apologize, Mrs. Chambers. I filed a citation about the noise coming from your property, but I learned later, from Mr. Coffman, that some of your visitors invited themselves. It seems that you were not planning to violate our guidelines.”

Startled, Grandma said, “Of course not. I was pleased to meet the McCallums, though. I haven’t had the pleasure of getting to know all my neighbors.”

“One must be neighborly, of course. We encourage the forming of community,” Heather said, smiling. Just as Cynthia was beginning to relax, however, she added, “There is another issue that needs to be addressed. I don’t know how closely you’ve read the covenant guidelines, but it includes a list of nonpermitted hobbies.”

Grandma frowned. “Hobbies?”

“Auto repair is specifically listed as a hobby not permitted in Slippery Elm. Your granddaughter has been regularly working on her car. The rules make no exceptions for historical vehicles.”

“I wasn’t aware that one weekend spent painting the car within the confines of our garage counted as a regular hobby. I also received no citation or warning about this charge.”

“My apologies. I meant to say something to you, but then the complaints about the outdoor noise took precedence.”

No accident, I’m sure, Cynthia thought. The ‘party’ charge was specious at best; Heather had probably filed it to keep their attention focused on other portions of the deed restrictions. This was sandbagging, pure and simple.

“I have observed,” Heather continued, “that it is not merely one weekend painting the car. She has also replaced several glass portions of the vehicle.”

“Those portions were cracked,” Grandma replied testily. “We took the car to professionals to have them installed.”

The younger woman shrugged. “You have been keeping the car inside the garage continuously. One day it is in the garage, the next it is outside with new glass. How could I know that the repairs weren’t going on inside?”

“We kept the car inside the garage because we didn’t want to expose it to the rain.” Grandma’s voice went up in volume. “You are correct, though; you have no way of knowing what was going on when the garage door was closed, as is also specified in the deed restrictions. They also state that you must provide proof that we were violating the covenant before charging us with something you didn’t personally witness. I can provide receipts proving that we paid to have that glass installed elsewhere.”

“Mrs. Chambers, I didn’t mean to provoke you,” Heather said, her compassionate expression never reaching her eyes; rather, they were sparkling with glee. “I’d prepared a citation for the restricted hobby, but I would be happy to void it if you provide us with a photocopy of the repair bill for our files.”

Grandma muttered all the way home. “That harridan, that shrew, that…”

“That bitch?” Josie offered.

“Yes, that bitch,” Grandma said. “This is definitely a cussing occasion if I ever heard of one. But you need to learn cleaner comments of opprobrium.”

“Tin-pot dictator,” Christophe suggested, as they pulled into their driveway.

“Plastic princess,” Josie added.

“Control queen,” Christophe said.

They agreed as one. “Control queen!”

“Yes, like that,” their grandmother chuckled at last. “I’ll make copies of our bill tomorrow and submit it to that woman. Perhaps we should discuss more pleasant things, like Josie’s birthday party.”

The teen tapped Cynthia’s shoulder. “Did you find a good pizza place?”

She smiled. “After careful consultation with my students, I think that the Italian restaurant at the UCI Marketplace will suit your needs just fine.”

Clarissa, she of the fake boobs, had been invited to the celebration. Cynthia had to agree that the girl did have a perky chest. She also had a nose ring with a lightning bolt hanging from it, which reminded Cynthia of a huge booger every time the girl tossed her too-red hair.

The other teen was named Antonio and was one of Josie’s classmates from shop. She had assumed he was Hispanic from the black hair and tawny skin, but he’d turned out to be half-Italian, half-Chinese. That was Irvine for you: a town of white bread and wasabi. Cynthia glanced around the table and thought about the strange assembly present: Grandma and Herman, the retired professors, two science nerds in their late twenties, and three teenagers. She might have enjoyed the contrast of ages more if her sinuses hadn’t been full. Could vampires get colds?

Josie plunked down her ice-filled glass. “I need another refill.”

Grandma tutted. “Now, dear, that’ll make your third soda.”

“You said no dietary restrictions for the party!”

“That doesn’t mean you should quaff so much pop that it makes you sick. Leave some room for the pizza. I let you order all those fatty meats, the least you could do is enjoy them.”

“I could use another soda, even if she doesn’t get one,” Cynthia said. The fizz was the only thing cutting through the steady stream of sludge in the back of her throat.

Grandma frowned with concern. “Are you all right? You sound odd.”

She began to reply, but cheers at the arrival of pizza, pasta, and garlic bread drowned her out. An explosion of pain took place in the front of her face: her eyes began to swell shut, and her ears plugged up. Something about the food was making it worse. Cynthia finally made the connection.

“Excuse me,” she mumbled, grabbing a napkin and rushing outside. The mucus choking her receded almost immediately. Damnation! It was the garlic! One more legend plays out.

She blew her nose and discovered that the napkin was now bloody. Ick. She dropped it into a nearby trashcan.

The door to the restaurant opened. “Are you okay?” Josie, fingers slick with garlic butter, hovered at her side. Just what she needed, hair from the dog. The headache returned.

“I will be. It’s just that–”

“Well, hello!” a familiar voice lilted nearby.

“Imogene?” Cynthia stared, bleary-eyed. What was she doing here?

“This is Imogene?” Josie scowled.

An amused smile curved the Asian woman’s lips. “Who is this young person?”

“This is my cousin, Josie. Josie, this is Imogene.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Imogene said, extending a graceful hand.

“Sorry, my fingers are greasy,” Josie said. “Are you coming back inside, Cynthia?”

“Is the rest of your family inside?” the girlfriend cooed. “I’ve so wanted to meet them.”

Josie folded her arms. “We’re celebrating my birthday party.”

“And happy birthday to you, dearie.” Imogene produced a little box wrapped in gift paper.

“You invited her?” The teen looked betrayed and Cynthia realized that she’d been had. This was no accidental encounter.

“No,” Imogene said quickly. “I got a gift for you and I thought I might get lucky if I looked around.”

Lucky? The woman should buy a lottery ticket with such luck. How did she find us? Is she following me around? Cynthia could not deal with this confrontation, not with her head pounding. “I’m leaving. I have a horrible headache, which is why I came out here in the first place. Goodbye!” That said, she pinched her nose shut and fled for her car.

After a long shower and several nose-blowings, Cynthia stretched out on her bed with a cold pack on her forehead. She hadn’t felt nearly this horrible since before her death. No wonder vampires stayed away from garlic.

The sound of the Volvo pulling into the driveway put her on alert. Any moment, Josie would be pounding on her door demanding an explanation for Imogene’s sudden appearance. What could she say? There was no excuse for trespassing in Josie’s space, even though Imogene had been saying for a while that she wanted to meet the entire family. Cynthia had put her off each time, and she now understood why: she didn’t want Imogene to intrude further into her life. Imogene wanted a relationship, but the better Cynthia got to know her, the less she liked her company. Only the blood was good. That and the sex, of course. Dylan had been right; she was leading Imogene on.

A soft tap drew her away from her epiphany. She went to the door and found Grandma on the other side instead of Josie.

“I take it Josie isn’t speaking to me?”

“Josie thinks you’re a big coward.”

“She’s partly right, but I really was sick.”

“That’s what I thought when you rushed out. Garlic bread too much to handle?”

Cynthia sighed and returned to her bed, sitting on it. “I didn’t even think about garlic being a problem until my sinuses got nuked.”

“I had. I thought you were being brave for Josie’s sake.”

“No, I was just stupid. Besides, I’ve been eating your food and I know you love to add onions and garlic to everything.”

“Not recently.”

“You haven’t?”

Grandma sat beside her. “Not in anything you were going to consume. I still add it to the things I eat during the day, but I’ve been working around it for my soups and stews. A bay leaf here, a little thyme there, perhaps an extra splash of wine in the stew. At least I can still use onions.”

“What happened with Imogene?”

Now it was Grandma’s turn to sigh. “Long-winded, isn’t she? She came inside and introduced herself. I’m sure she meant well, but she began telling me her life story. Josie was fit to be tied.”

Damn. “Did Josie start a fight? Cause a scene?”

“No, I was impressed by her restraint. She finally grabbed the present out of Imogene’s hand and said that if Imogene were going to ‘butt in’, she should at least get to see what her gift was.”

“Oh. What was it?”

“It was a geode key ring, similar to yours. She said she’d heard Josie had her own car. I must admit I was amused by the child’s confusion, being offended and flattered at the same time.”

“I should probably go speak to her.”

“You probably should, but she’s not home. She and her friends went for a drive in the DeSoto. Perhaps it will give her time to settle.”

Cynthia waited in the den until she heard the chug of Josie’s car outside, and then went to the garage to meet her.

“Where are your friends?”

“I dropped them off at their houses. There’s no point in getting Heather the Ho riled by having their parents come to get them after nine PM.” Josie’s voice was cool as she stuffed her keys in her pocket, geode attached. Flattery must have won out. The teen began to breeze past Cynthia, and Cynthia stopped her.

“Josie.”

“That’s my name, don’t wear it out.” If this was Josie after having time to settle, she must have been furious in the restaurant.

“I’m sorry, Josie. I didn’t invite her, and I’m sorry that she ruined your party.”

“Then how did she know where we’d be, and when?” Dark eyes blinked wet in the subdued light of the garage. “You had to have told her.”

“The only thing I said was that I couldn’t see her until Saturday because I was going to your birthday party tonight. I didn’t say anything else.”

“I hate her! She had no business butting into my party. If she wanted to give me a present, she should have given it to you. Didn’t you tell her she wasn’t invited?”

“No, and that was my fault. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings, so I said it would be rude to invite her to someone else’s party. I don’t know how she found us. I’m mortified that she did. I wouldn’t try to hurt you that way.” Cynthia gazed into the dark eyes. “Honest.”

“Oh.” Josie looked calmer now. “Well, I guess you had to be polite.”

“Maybe I should have been blunt instead. So, shall we compare key rings?”

Cynthia steeled herself as she drove to Imogene’s apartment the following night. She wasn’t looking forward to the conversation they were going to have. The walk through the student apartment buildings was much quicker than she would have liked.

The door opened as she raised her hand to knock. Imogene pulled her inside.

“There you are! I’m glad to have you to myself tonight. You’re so busy, we’ve had hardly any time together.” She traced Cynthia’s ear with a fingertip. “I’ve missed your… energy.”

“I’ve been busy with midterms.” Helping grade papers was another service she could do for the other professors. It was one of the few activities that wasn’t scheduled or bound by specific hours.

“And parties for cousins.”

Time to stop putting it off, Leach. She’s given you an opening. Cynthia took a deep breath and pulled back from the enticing body of her companion. “About that. How did you find us? Did you decide to follow me yesterday?”

Imogene frowned. “No! I used my pendulum.”

“Your what?”

“A pendulum. It’s used for divination.” Imogene crossed the room to the shelf where she kept her crystals and took down one of the cedar boxes. She opened it and pulled out a silver chain. A chunk of rose quartz dangled from it, point down. “I just held it over a map of the campus and thought of my true love.”

“Ridiculous. Divination doesn’t work.” Does it?

“Stop being so close-minded. I found you, didn’t I? I felt your vibe strong and clear when I passed it over the UCI Marketplace.”

“That sounds creepy, like you’re stalking me with voodoo. Look, this isn’t going to work. I mean, our relationship. I’ve tried, I want to love you, I really do, but it’s just not happening.”

Imogene laid her hand over Cynthia’s. “Love isn’t something you try to do. You need to relax and just let it happen. You and your eighth house issues. We can work on trust together.”

“It’s not a matter of working on trust. I don’t think you’re a bad person or dishonest in any way.” Except for crashing a party you know you weren’t invited to.

“I should hope not.”

She knew the words she should say, had rehearsed them in her mind, but somehow they just wouldn’t come out of her mouth gracefully. “I just don’t… love you. It has nothing to do with you.” Except for the part about my not being able to stand you.

Imogene’s eyes became shiny with newborn tears, then narrowed with anger. “It’s because of her, isn’t it? That girl.”

“What girl?”

“Your so-called ‘cousin’.” She made little quote marks with her fingers. One more thing Cynthia couldn’t stand. “If she is your cousin, what you two are doing would be illegal for straight people!”

Cynthia felt heat rise in her face as the implication became clear. “We’re not doing anything. This has nothing to do with her.”

“Do you bite her in bed, too? Do her parents know what you two are up to?”

“We’re not ‘up to’ anything!” Cynthia slapped her hand on the nearby table and it quivered. Imogene grabbed a jasper egg that had been dislodged from its perch.

“You’re doing it again, getting violent! First the mug in the coffee shop, now this! You have a terrible Mars!”

“I’m sorry. I’ll leave now.”

“You’re lucky I don’t call Child Services. I’ll tell them to look for bite marks, and where to check first!” Imogene shouted at Cynthia’s back; Cynthia whirled.

“You will not!” She seized the other woman’s shoulders, gripping them hard and staring into the glittering dark eyes. “You will call no one. Nothing is going on. You will leave us alone.”

Imogene sagged in her hands and Cynthia let her fall to the floor. The jasper egg rolled on the ground between their feet. On the way out the door at last, Cynthia heard her ex-ex-ex-girlfriend sob, “I’ll never be fooled by a Venus in the first house again!”

She returned to a house neat as a pin. Christophe had vacuumed all the rugs, swept the wooden floors, mopped the linoleum in the kitchen, and cleaned the grout between the bathroom tiles. Now, he was in the study shelving the books in Library of Congress order. Josie had suggested that they make some extra income for a new house by hiring out his services.

Cynthia couldn’t do anything to change what was going on with the neighborhood association. There was another matter, however, that she could attend to.

The pale, angular form was on the porch when Cynthia rounded the corner of the bungalow. The full moon made the lines of his features, the folds of his clothes, the support he leaned against, as clear to her as if it were daytime. “Good to see you. It’s been a while,” Dylan said as she climbed his steps.

“Yes, it has.”

“I didn’t think you were speaking to me anymore.”

“No, I’ve been busy, what with midterms, an attack on the house, and breaking up with Imogene a second time. There’s someone who’ll never speak to me again. I just hope she keeps her mouth shut.”

One pale eyebrow wrinkled. “I think you should back up a bit. What is this business about the house being attacked?”

“Nothing. Well, okay, vampire hunters from North Carolina broke in. But that’s not why I came here.”

“Vampire hunters aren’t enough?”

“No, not tonight. I came to talk to you about Christophe.”

“Oh. Why don’t we go inside?”

Cynthia waved away his offer of a drink and plopped in one of the overstuffed chairs. “I know I shouldn’t pry into your personal lives, but my brother has gone nuts. He’s cleaned our house from top to bottom, and now he’s organizing us. Grandma is going to strangle him if he moves her spices again.”

The eyes, one shade away from silver, looked away. “I regret that. Really. I hoped he would… get over it by now.”

“Our tile grout says he hasn’t. He won’t give me a lot of details. Why don’t you tell me what happened?”

“Does he know you’re here?”

“No. At least, I hope not. But I care about him and I want to understand.”

Dylan sighed. “He wanted a closer relationship with me.”

“He loves you.”

“Yes. He said so one night, proposed we get married. The wonders of legal progress never cease to amaze me.”

Cynthia hadn’t realized their relationship was so serious. Or was it only serious on one side? “I take it you said no.”

“Yes, I refused. I suggested that marrying a vampire wasn’t a good idea and that we might want to spend some time apart.”

“He loves you, but you don’t love him.”

His hand, resting casually on the arm of the sofa, twitched. “It’s irrelevant how I feel. Living with a vampire is not safe. Maybe he’s figured that out, if you’ve been under attack by hunters.”

“He’s no safer with me than he is with you. He might be safer here, actually.”

“It’s more that that. Cynthia–” he raised the hand, fingers up, and drew them together as if to capture an idea in the air. “I can give many things to a person I care about, but I cannot promise fidelity. I have to have blood, and sex is the safest way for me to obtain it. Your brother is too much of a straight arrow, pardon the expression, to have an open marriage. He’s… well, he’s old fashioned. It would break his heart.”

Sadly, his reasoning made perfect sense to Cynthia. “What did he say when you explained this to him?”

“I didn’t. I thought it was better to cut off the discussion than to provoke a series of arguments or, worse yet, compromises that would culminate in mutual hatred.”

“You’ve been in love before.”

“Yes.”

“So it’s your heart, too, that could break.”

The familiar wry smile flickered across his features. “I thought you were clueless where romance was concerned. When did you become so perceptive?”

“Hah! When you said you chickened out on telling him the truth. Do you love Christophe?”

He reclined into the cushions and steepled his fingers. It was a perfectly thoughtful, yet pensive, pose. “Love… who can really say what love is?” he asked an invisible audience.

She slapped his knee and glared. “Stop with the drama bullshit. You’re ducking the question.”

Dylan moved his legs out of range. “I’ve been ducking that question, too. I keep reminding myself that I’m old enough to know better, but I can’t help being foolish sometimes. Death doesn’t suddenly make you wiser.”

“So you do love him.”

There was a long pause. “Do you think I would have let matters go this far if I didn’t?” Dylan finally asked. “There’s a reason I normally prey on tourists. They’re just looking for a holiday fling and there are no long-term expectations. No one’s feelings get hurt.”

“But Christophe isn’t a tourist.”

“No, and he’s your brother, and it was nice to have people around that I didn’t need to lie to all the time. I didn’t move to California with my entire family, like some people. Of course, my family was part of the reason I crossed the Pond in the first place.”

Cynthia winced at the idea of dwelling alone, with no one to confide in or to trust with her safety. No wonder Dylan had been so interested in meeting her. Her company was probably worth more to him than any power or influence she had envisioned him seeking.

“We don’t get to choose our family members till we’re grown up. I’m surprised you never created another vampire, someone else to share your home.”

“Creating another vampire just gives you a whole new group of worries; someone else with your vulnerabilities, but without your experience. Not to mention that it tends to ruin the relationship. The balance of power shifts, making them your dependent, not the equal you sought. Then there’s the creation process itself. Even if the person agrees beforehand, they always remember that you killed them.”

“So you’ve created other vampires.”

“Yes, twice. The first was an extra in one of the many movies shot on our beach. His existence ended rapidly and badly. The second relationship turned ugly, and I sent him away to make his own home elsewhere.”

Why was nothing ever simple? She leaned forward and put her hand over his. “I think you ought to talk to Christophe and explain your misgivings. If you’re looking for an equal, treat him like one. He might not like your methods, but he’s been around me long enough to know that I’m doing some crazy things to get fed. Things I wouldn’t otherwise do. He already knows your nature; let him decide if he can handle it or not.”

“If he couldn’t, I doubt he’d want to just be friends. I don’t think I’d be visiting the house anymore.”

“You’re not visiting the house anyway. This way, he’d have to respect your honesty.”

“You, love, come from another species if you think honesty always helps.” He stood. “I’ve talked about this for as long as I can tolerate it. I don’t mean to be rude, but I would like to be alone for a while.”

“Sure.” She clasped his hand again. “Sorry to barge in on your private relationships. I just care about my family. You, too.”

He squeezed her fingers, and then gestured to the door. “You’ll have to tell me about your vampire hunters some other time. I must confess my curiosity. In the meantime, have the family invest in firearms and a good alarm system.”

Cynthia’s satisfaction of a good deed done only lasted until she got home. Christophe met her at the door, furious.

“You talked to him about me, didn’t you?” A can of Pledge quivered in his right hand. She couldn’t believe he was cleaning at 4 AM in a bathrobe.

She stepped back a pace. “Did he call you?”

“He doesn’t have to call for me to know when he’s upset. Did I ask you to get involved?”

“Um… no.”

“So now you’re the one butting in. I thought you knew better!” He spun on his heel and stomped up the stairs, running his dustcloth along the banister.

Christophe didn’t speak to Cynthia the next evening; he just glared at her from across the dinner table. Grandma tried to get him to open up, but no one since Grandpa Chambers had been able to jar him out of a mood.

Afterwards, they retreated to the library for tutoring. Cynthia checked out a few web sites while Christophe and Josie went over Josie’s math homework.

When she pulled up The Slippery Slum, she saw that it had been updated. “Hey, it’s the latest installment of our favorite blog. Shall I read it to you?”

“Yeah,” Josie said. Christophe grunted assent.

“‘Witchery in the Diocese. The Lady of Aquitaine invited a band of pagans into the heart of the Bishop’s territory. When the Templars arrived, they were worshiping naked under the stars.’ Well, that’s an exaggeration. We had our clothes on. ‘The Bishop brought them before the people, to display their heresy.’ Oh, my, this is tacky.” She turned the screen around. “He’s put Grandma’s head on a drawing of someone in the stockades.”

Josie and Christophe looked over her shoulder. “Oh, that’s funny!” Josie said.

“‘To make matters worse, the King seems to be falling under the Lady’s spell. Can the Bishop dispatch her rival as efficiently as she did the widow Becket?’”

Cynthia wondered who the ‘King’ was. Gerald? He was a little younger than Heather, but that didn’t seem to make as much of a difference these days. He probably had some sort of bond with Jason, too, if the boy was captain of the water polo team. Was Grandma making him see Heather as the martinette she was?

“Scroll down further,” Josie said. “That looks like a horse’s head.”

Cynthia complied. “‘Young Lady Josette has been performing her own enchantments. She was brought up on charges of witchcraft when it was discovered that DeSoto, the old gelding she was given to ride, had been transformed into a strong chestnut steed. The Bishop leveled many threats if the magic continued.’”

“Look, he’s put my face on someone being burned at the stake.”

Cynthia started to say that it looked like Joan of Arc, but was stopped by a familiar prickle on the back of her neck. Could it be? The chime of the doorbell echoed through the house. Christophe was already out of the room, crossing the hall to the entrance. Josie followed close behind. A moment later, the girl’s words floated into the library. “Oh, hi, Dylan.”

Cynthia joined them in the foyer. Josie was giving their visitor the latest update on her restoration project. Dylan’s head was cocked in the quintessential position of the listener. “I see. And where did you find replacement rims?”

“Online. There are all sorts of collector sites. Lots of pictures, too, which is great.” Christophe’s hand fell on her shoulder and she turned. “I’m sorry. Dylan came to see you, didn’t he?”

“I’d like to borrow your brother for a while,” the elder vampire said to Cynthia in a too-casual voice. “If you don’t mind.”

Cynthia glanced at Christophe. “I don’t mind if he doesn’t.”

“Fine with me,” Christophe agreed wanly.

“Do you need a jacket?” Dylan inquired. When Christophe shook his head, Dylan took him by the hand and led him outside.

“I hope they make up,” Josie whispered as they watched the two men get into the Aston Martin. “I’m getting allergic to ammonia.”

Two days passed before Christophe called Cynthia’s private line. “I bet you thought I’d fallen off the edge of the earth.”

“I was beginning to wonder. How are you?”

“Better. Much better. I’m looking at a sink of dirty dishes right now, and I haven’t had even the faintest urge to wash them.”

“That’s very good. How is Dylan?”

“He doesn’t feel like washing them, either.”

“So, is everything okay?”

Her brother sighed. “Everything is fine. Look, I’m calling because I know I was supposed to be assisting you in class tonight. Can I take a rain check?”

“Don’t say ‘rain’ to an astronomer. And yes, you can.”

“I might come to the house later. I need to pick up a couple of things to bring over here.”

“Okay, I’ll see you whenever.”

“Hey, thank you. For whatever you did.”

“All is forgiven?”

“All is forgiven.”

When Cynthia dropped by the Physics and Astronomy Department on Wednesday to check her mail, she found another of the long envelopes in her box Hargrave’s personal assistant favored. A knot low in her gut began forming as she opened it as if it would explode. It was the Class schedule for the Winter Quarter, with her sections highlighted. One was an eight A.M, and the other began at two in the afternoon. Yes, she’d been right–it was a bomb.

There was nothing to do but consult Dylan. She just hoped she wouldn’t be interrupting anything.

“Feed him,” was the older vampire’s advice. Dylan’s legs were stretched out and his feet rested on the coffee table, something she’d never seen him do before. Christophe curled beside him on the couch. Cynthia couldn’t help but notice the radiance of shared joy between them. For once, she had done something right.

“Feed him what?”

Dylan laughed into his Scotch. “Pardon me,” he spluttered. “I forget that you take things literally. Your blood. Just drinking from him would make him more docile, but I doubt it’d be fully effective. Giving him your blood would bind him to you, making it hard for him to defy your wishes.”

“That’s not ethical.”

Dylan uncrossed and recrossed his feet the other way on the coffee table. “This isn’t something you can avoid by calling in sick. He’s trying to establish dominance. You told him you couldn’t do days, so he’s thinking of you as a challenge. If that’s the case, you’re going to need some sort of long-term solution. Of course, you could just quit.”

“No way. The University agreed to this arrangement, and he ought to honor it. Besides, it wouldn’t be fair to my students.”

“Life isn’t fair. Neither is death, come to think of it. You could give him the traditional evil eye and see if that works, but binding him would be surer,” Dylan stated.

“Evil… eye?”

He waved a dismissive hand. “You know, stare into his eyes and do that Svengali thing. Didn’t you ever go to the movies as a kid?”

“No, I spent most of my time in European boarding schools.”

“Babe in the woods. Just feed him.”

“Does that make him my slave?”

He shrugged. “It depends on his amount of willpower. At the very least, it forms a bond. It’d make him more susceptible to your wishes, which is why I brought it up in the first place.”

A thought surfaced in Cynthia’s mind, a painful one. “If you fed from someone and almost killed them, but then gave them some of your blood, would that make them your slave?”

“It still depends on the person. I gave Christophe my blood when you had your accident. Are you my slave, love?”

“Sex slave.” They both laughed, but Cynthia wasn’t amused.

“That’s what I did to Josie.” Unfamiliar tears prickled in the corners of her eyes. “I got too hungry and I fed from her. I thought she was going to die, so I gave her some of my own. I guess that makes her my servant.” And I was stupid enough to believe she liked me.

“You hadn’t fed from her before, eh? Because of her youth?”

“No, I wasn’t planning to feed from her. I was giving her a ride. She was hitchhiking.” Cynthia bowed her head, feeling stupid.

“I thought she was your cousin.”

“No, I picked her up on my way to Irvine. She was in some trouble when I found her, so I took her with me.”

“Josie in trouble. That, I believe. What about the others? Is the lady of the house really your grandmother, or was she running away from a nursing home when you found her?” Dylan turned and studied her brother, who put an innocent expression on his face. “What about Christophe? Good heavens, don’t tell me he’s been lying to me all this time without me knowing!”

She laughed. “No, they’re truly my relatives. But I felt responsible for Josie, and I thought she deserved a better life. Instead, I made her my slave.”

“She doesn’t appear to be that obedient. Not that I’ve noticed, anyway.”

“No.” The thought gave Cynthia some relief. “So you think I should make this guy drink my blood. There’s no other way?”

“You could kill him.”

“No!”

“Then feed him.”

“How do I get him to do that? It’s not like he’s kinky.”

Dylan lifted one white eyebrow. “You don’t know that for sure. But just in case he’s as straightlaced as you, try this…”

Six-fifteen PM. Cynthia smoothed her pants one more time before entering the offices. She hoped the wrinkles from the car trunk were gone. It was still a week and a half till daylight savings time ended, till she could begin meeting with anyone at a time approaching normal business hours. Hargrave had declined her dinner invitation, insisting that she come in on his schedule. In ten days, she could have slept at home instead of inside a garment bag in the back of her vehicle. Damn those legislators for moving the ‘fall back’ date from October to November!

Hargrave was waiting in his office when she knocked on the doorjamb. “Ah, you’re here. So you can show up when you really need to.”

Don’t show anger. “I came as soon as I was able. I always do, sir.”

“We’ll be seeing more of you in the winter quarter. I presume that’s what you’ve come to speak to me about?”

He indicated the waiting chair, but she shook her head. “No thank you. Standing will remind me that I’m taking up your free time.” It also made access to him easier.

“Oh! Well, thank you for the consideration, but I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

Yes, you do. “Sir, there is simply no way I can teach the classes you’ve assigned me to for next year. The terms of my contract state that my primary work centers on my grant. It also specifies that any classes I am assigned to teach are minimal and within a range of hours that do not conflict with my research.”

“I understand that you’ve been showing up here at times that haven’t been scheduled as work times, helping out with the tutoring and the labs. It seems you have more time than you let on. If you have another job during the daytime, you know that is expressly forbidden by your contract.”

“My only other job is pursuing my grant. It’s… very consuming. The time I’ve donated to helping out with labs and tutoring doesn’t conflict with it. I’ve come in on my own time to make it clear that I see myself as part of this team, despite the limitations of my condition.”

Hargrave rose from his seat. “Doctor Leach, you’re just going to have to accept that your responsibilities to the department will inconvenience you from time to time. How much clearer can I make it?”

Cynthia grabbed his tie and yanked him across the desk. When he was close enough, she buried her face in his shoulder. He cried out, quieting as her teeth sank into his neck. The blood was sweet and welcome, quelling the hunger of nearly a week without feeding. She forced herself not to gulp. After a moment, he sagged and she lowered him back into his chair. He slumped there, close-eyed, while she pricked her finger with a fang and put it into his mouth. One squeeze, then two, and his eyelids fluttered. She stood back.

“You grabbed me,” he said, looking up blearily.

“No, sir,” she said. The lies were coming easier now. “You started to sway and I caught you. Are you all right?” She picked up a paper on his desk and began fanning him for good effect.

“I think so. Strange, I thought you...” He reached up towards the mark on his neck. Cynthia put his hand back in his lap and straightened his collar. Not a drop of blood on it. She’d done well.

“Just rest, sir. It’s probably the heat. I think they overdo the heating in the winter here in California. Of course, I’m used to cooler temperatures.” She set down the paper and went to the pitcher in the corner. “Let me get you some water.”

He murmured thanks as she handed him the plastic cup. “What were we talking about?”

She dry-swallowed. “I was explaining why I couldn’t take on those day classes. Could you find someone else?”

Rather than argue, he shrugged. “Maybe one of the teaching assistants could take the beginning class. I could move Franck over to Quantum Physics and assign you to more evening labs. If that would work out better for your schedule.”

“That would be great! Thank you, sir.”

Cynthia crossed to her car, spirit buoyant in a way it hadn’t been in weeks. The moon was just coming off full, providing bright conditions for her heightened senses. It hadn’t been an honorable thing to do to Hargrave but, given the circumstances, it had been the least disastrous option for everyone involved. She would have to give some serious thought to her future role in the department. It might involve taking a cut in income and doing pure research. She loved teaching; could she really give that up? Maybe she could take on a grad student or just teach classes during the winter quarter.

She shook her head, casting her worries to the curb for a change. She could set up Normal 2.0 for her life later. For the moment, she preferred to revel in a problem solved.

She didn’t normally think much of costume parties, but it was the first party Dylan and Christophe were hosting as a couple. And it was Halloween, which one assumed was a good holiday for vampires. Cynthia had chosen to go as a WWI pilot, since it required a minimal amount of outside material. Her bomber jacket, usually too warm to wear in Southern California, one of Grandma’s white silk scarves, and Great-grandpa Leach’s Air Corps goggles would suffice.

The door was opened by a woman dressed up as Billy Idol. “Entrez-vous. Love your costume!”

“Thanks.” Cynthia crossed the threshold into a dimly lit mass of living, sweating, human flesh. The shelves and counters were filled with all sorts of candles, ranging from tea lights in dias to a candelabra with long black tapers on the mantelpiece. A spider web of twinkling purple lights spread across the ceiling. Its inhabitant, a spotlighted disco ball with legs, cast shards of brilliance into the darkened recesses above it. The furniture normally in the room had been removed to accommodate more people.

The pulsing beat of “Dead Man’s Party” filled the room. It was one of Christophe’s favorite pieces of music, and she looked for her brother. She finally located him in the kitchen area, mixing cranberry juice drinks for two guests. He wore the flowing surcoat of a Templar knight. Probably Dylan’s idea of typecasting.

As for Dylan, he was dressed like a vampire. Not very original, Cynthia thought. His hair was as black as shoe polish and pulled back. The high collar on his cape obscured most of her view, so she couldn’t tell if he’d actually cut his hair or simply braided it.

He held court in the center of the room, surrounded by a crowd of beautiful people. Cynthia noted that all the invitees seemed to be young, fit, and attractive. Was everyone in Southern California physically perfect?

Dylan raised a glass of dark liquid to her. “Ah, Amelia! You weren’t lost after all. Come this way, say hello to the nice people.”

Cynthia threaded her way through the press of dancers to his side. “Your costume is pretty–” she was going to say “obvious”, but thought better of it. “Flamboyant.”

“He dresses like a vampire every year,” one of the blondes said. She seemed more mature than the rest of the group. She might be thirty. “It’s boring.”

“For whom?” Dylan countered. She’d been right about the braid. Its end, bound in a skull-shaped clasp, fell over his left shoulder as he turned. “When else would I ever get to be tall, dark, and handsome?”

“Suggest Othello to the committee next year, Paleface, and ask for the lead role. I’d show up for the comic value, if nothing else.” The woman’s attention shifted to Cynthia. “I haven’t seen you at any of the auditions. Are you one of his friends from Las Vegas?”

“I beg your forgiveness,” Dylan said. “I meant to introduce you. This is Cynthia Leach, Christophe’s sister. Cynthia, this is Gina Fagen, one of the finest leading ladies in Laguna Beach.”

Cynthia raised her voice. “Pleased to meet you.”

The sound system belted out “Drac the Knife” and Dylan pulled one of the young women into his arms.

“You’ll have to excuse me,” he said. “They’re playing my song.”

He twirled his partner into the glittering center of the floor, joining others whose inhibitions were loosened by alcohol. At the end of the song, Dylan took his companion into a deep dip and sunk his teeth into her neck. Cynthia was shocked; she had never expected to see him feed in front of everyone. Why was everyone clapping? Was she the only one who had seen the fangs appear as his lips touched her skin?

Then they were standing again and the young woman was giggling. A fellow next to Cynthia remarked that Dylan was overacting, but another opined that overacting with Dracula was traditional.

Perhaps she was the only one who had noticed the authenticity of the performance, either because her night vision was superior or she knew what to look for.

“The Bloodletting” by Concrete Blonde boomed across the room next. Cynthia felt a poke in her side and turned to find someone dressed as Catwoman gesturing to the floor. She nodded assent and flipped her silk scarf back over her shoulder.

Her dance partner seemed to have chosen the Halle Berry version of the costume over the traditional Julie Newmar garb. The mask covered her entire head and most of her face. It seemed appropriate; unlike many of the women present, her dance partner had some real muscle under the slick fabric. Her movements were athletic, too, in an unconscious, untrained way that was attractive.

By the end of the dance, the ends of Cynthia’s scarf had fallen down the front of her coat. Catwoman grabbed them and pulled Cynthia close, into a kiss. The stranger’s lips were hot and opened slightly, probing. Cynthia allowed it, enjoying the feel of the wiry body pressed against hers, her own body tautening in response.

Did she dare? When the kiss ended, she bent her head to Catwoman’s neck, nibbling at the ear before beginning a passionate suckle near the jugular that turned into a bite. Sweet blood trickled into her mouth.

“Ohhh,” Catwoman sighed, in a voice that was strangely familiar. It took a moment before Cynthia identified it, at which point she shoved Catwoman’s hands away from her rear end and yanked off the mask.

It was Josie.

“What are you doing here?”

The girl grinned, face flushed. “It’s Halloween. It’s a party. You came; why shouldn’t I?”

“Does Grandma know you’re here?”

“She was asleep. I didn’t want to bother her.”

“In other words, no.”

“But I’m here, safe with you. Wanna dance again?”

“No!” Cynthia couldn’t believe that she hadn’t recognized Josie. How could she not have noticed the non-artificial chest and the dark curls? Worse yet, she had kissed Josie. Actually, Josie had kissed her. She must have wanted to, must have planned it. And Cynthia had let her do it, had enjoyed the kissing, had even been considering taking her out to the beach for further exploration behind one of the dunes.

“Is everything okay?” Dylan had materialized nearby, amusement quirking the corners of his mouth. “Hello, Josie. I didn’t realize you were here.”

“It’s okay, isn’t it? I mean, I’m one of the family.”
“No, it is not okay,” Cynthia snapped. “They’re serving liquor here, you’re underage, and tomorrow is a school day. And half the guests are not the sort of people you’re used to.”

“That’s why I decided to stick near you,” Josie said.

Cynthia was certain she’d heard Dylan muffle a snort of laughter, and tried to cling to what remained of her dignity. “You crashed the party, which is very rude. And you ran away on Grandma, which will worry her.”

“I brought my new phone,” Josie said.

“You can’t hear a phone ring in here.”

“That’s why I set it on vibrate.”

Dylan intervened. “The child has an answer for everything, doesn’t she?” He laughed and put a hand on Josie’s shoulder. “Why don’t you come this way for some cranberry juice? Tell me where you got that outfit before we send you home.”

The first day of November ended with a dismal night sky filled by clouds glowing with light pollution. Cynthia frowned out at it from the library windows. She knew that modern observatories weren’t stopped by the weather, but she still enjoyed old-fashioned stargazing.

Josie sat at the study table, ostensibly working on her French assignment. In reality, she was pouting. Cynthia knew this from the too-frequent sighs and the dark eyes she felt on her back whenever she wasn’t facing the girl. The international signs of teenage sulking.

What was she going to do about Josie? What had happened at the party couldn’t be undone. Josie had made her interest clear in direct, unfuzzy terms. Josie had every right to expect some sort of response from Cynthia, which was why she was sighing and staring. Unfortunately, Cynthia had no idea how to respond, and asking her grandmother for sexual advice about underage girls was out of the question.

Cynthia finally pulled out her keys. “It’s about time for me to assist with the labs. If you have a problem with the French, Grandma will be able to help you.” Down the hall she went, ignoring the muttered “N’importe quoi” behind her.

It was easier to avoid Josie on Tuesday, since Cynthia went directly from bed to class. Afterwards, she asked Nenita and Zhou if they wanted to stop at one of the local watering holes, but they declined, citing AM classes.

Cynthia found herself walking alone on the campus, feeling like a perfect idiot for being afraid to go home. Finally, she decided to see if Lucy was still up. Mrs. Hart could glare all she wanted; there were worse things in the world to face.

When she exited her room Wednesday evening, Grandma was waiting beside the door.

“I don’t know what’s going on, but you need to talk to Josie. She’s driving me crazy.”

“Do you know what it’s about?” Cynthia asked, hoping fear didn’t come out in her voice.

“I have no idea, and she won’t tell me. She kept asking me when sunset took place, so I know who needs to handle it.”

“Excellent deduction,” Cynthia complimented. “Where is she?”

“In the library, pretending to study math.”

“On my way.” She trudged up the hall, mind a complete blank.

Josie’s dark head was bent over a book when Cynthia came in. “Grandma says we should talk.”

“Uh-huh.” The head didn’t budge.

“I think we should talk, too.”

The head still didn’t budge. “That’s not the impression I’ve been getting.”

Cynthia covered the pages with her hand. “I’ve been busy.”

“All last night?”

“I was visiting someone. To feed.”

Josie sat back and flipped her curls with one hand. “Did you make up with Icky Imogene?”

“No, it was someone else. Come outside with me.”

They stepped out on the loggia. The stars were back, tiny gemstone chips sprinkled across dark velvet. If the moon rose at all, it would be late. The two women stood next to each other, simply breathing for a few minutes. The wind, warm and dry, ruffled their clothes and hair.

“It’s not fair.” Josie leaned against one of the columns.

“Many things are not fair. What’s not fair in this case?”

“You keep on seeing these women, getting involved with them so you can drink their blood, and then you wind up trying to get rid of them.”

Cynthia slitted her eyes. “And?”

“Well, what about me? Haven’t you ever thought about getting with me?”

So, there it was. “I didn’t know... didn’t know you felt that way until the party.”

“Mnnnaaah!” Josie clenched her fists. “You are the only person who doesn’t know, then! Christophe knows it. Even Dylan figured it out. They were teasing me the other night.”

“Why did you tell them, and not me? They should have said something!”

“I didn’t tell them. They figured it out on their own. And you didn’t!”

The confirmation of her idiocy was too much. Cynthia dropped to the steps and sat down. “I… wouldn’t allow myself to think it. You’re too young.”

“No, I’m not. Especially since I’m in California, land of liberality.”

“Not where underage status is concerned. You need to be eighteen here, which is probably a more stringent limit than Arkansas has,” Cynthia said.

“Oklahoma.”

Cynthia pointed upwards. “It might as well be Antares up there. You’re still underage.”

“You already transported me across state lines. That’s illegal, too.”

“Reminding me of that is not the way to make me feel romantic, Josie. It isn’t just a legal matter, it’s an ethical one.”

Josie’s dark eyes crackled. “It didn’t stop you from drinking my blood!”

“I lost control. Under normal circumstances, I would never have done that.”

“Why? Vampire Social Services would come take me?”

“No, because I think more highly of you than that,” Cynthia said. “When I found you, you were in danger of being molested. Now you’re suggesting that I be the molester.”

Josie’s reply was an amused snort.

“That would be wrong,” Cynthia added after a moment. “I know you don’t think so, but I do not believe in exploiting children.”

“Children? I’m no child!”

“No, but you’re not an adult, either. If it’s really love, Josie, and not simply hormones, it’s worth waiting a couple of years.”

The dark eyes were wet now, and the teen’s face glowed with a deep flush. “I don’t want to talk anymore. I just want to go to my room. If you’re not gonna throw me out, that is.”

“Certainly not. We were serious about this being your new home. I’m sorry things have to be this way.”

“Yeah, right.” Josie skulked back into the house, slamming the door behind her.

Frustrated, Cynthia drove out to Laguna Beach and found Dylan and her brother in their chairs on the front porch.

She stopped at the steps. “Dylan, may I speak to you privately?”

“Please excuse me,” he said to Christophe, and joined her on the path. “Shall we walk?”

“That works for me.”

The surf was loud, stirred by the winds. When they had walked a short distance from the house, Dylan said, “You’re here because of what happened at the party, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” She turned her face towards him so she wouldn’t have to compete with sound of the waves. “Why did you warn me about Eric, and not Josie?”

“I warned you about your amorous professor because he was patently not the sort of person you’d want attention from.”

“And Josie is?”

“Watching the two of you argue is rather charming. I thought you would make a lovely pair.”

“She’s underage!” Cynthia’s mouth had dropped open; she closed it.

“In the era I came from, she would have been considered ready for marriage. In terms of age, at any rate. I’m afraid they preferred young ladies to be more biddable then.”

“Well, what am I supposed to do?”

“That, my dear, is for you to decide. It sounds like she’s been honest about her feelings. Will you be honest about your own?”

Her mouth dropped open again; she closed it quickly. What did he mean by that, be honest about her own feelings? That was a stupid question; he was making an implication. Was it true?

The familiar mocking smile faded, making his face almost earnest. “You talk about her all the time. You felt so bad about feeding from her once, you’ve dated several unsuitable women instead of drinking from the most convenient fountain you have. This isn’t because she’s unimportant to you. Quite the opposite.”

“You make a lot of suppositions.”

He shrugged. “What can I say? I’m a romantic.”

Cynthia tiptoed into the house at 5 AM, hoping to escape notice by Josie, Grandma, or the occasional vampire hunter. She needn’t have bothered. Hoarse sobs echoed down the stairs. In counterpoint to the sobs, her grandmother’s tired voice murmured soft reassurances. Unfortunately, this was an injury only time could cure.

The vibrations of the truck bed under his butt were beginning to put him to sleep. Buford stretched and whapped his face to keep himself awake. Napping on the job was frowned upon. The hand came back wet, so he wiped his face again with an already-soggy handkerchief. It was pretty warm for November.

They stopped at the gate and he slouched down between the mowers. They were the cool type you stood on, but he wasn’t allowed to use them any more. Mister Evans had forgiven him for falling off a couple of times, but assigned him edging jobs after Buford ran into Mrs. Bishop’s Japanese maple. Or, rather, ran over Mrs. Bishop’s Japanese maple. He hadn’t realized how difficult steering would be.

Buford hadn’t been able to check on the Vampire House yesterday–Mrs. Bishop had kept an eye on him after the tree incident–but today they’d left him behind to finish up with the edger. Buford did a rush job down Shady Grove, its name a case of false advertising. There were only a couple of scraggly elms, and the leaves had dried up and fallen off already. Forest Trail was just ahead. He moved faster, leaving patches of grass sticking up where they could be seen from the road. Mister Evans would be mad when he saw them, but if Buford got rid of the vampire, he could quit. Maybe even today, before he did something else wrong.

Joy, mixed with fear, leapt in his heart when he saw the white Volvo backing down the drive at 2201 Forest Trail. He hadn’t seen the brother’s car for the past week or so, and the girl should be in school today. This was the perfect time to go in. He checked to make sure the lawn stake was still in his cargo pants, and moved closer.

Buford began edging along the sideway that fronted the house, then sidled up the driveway. He slipped inside the back gate and crept up onto the back patio. He sure hoped Uncle Wilbur was right about the vampire being asleep during the day. He hoped the neighbors had all gone to work, too. It’d be really hard to explain to the cops that he was sneaking around a strange house because he was fighting the forces of evil.

The forces of evil lived pretty nice, though. The red-tiled roofs and big windows were pretty. Lots of rooms, too. Mama would have needed years to fill this place up.

He peered into one of the rooms and saw a table with a familiar little shape on it. Was that a Hummel figurine? Maybe the vampire had something in common with his ma. Buford shook his head. That was a disturbing thought. He moved closer and pressed his face to the glass. Yes, it was a Hummel angel, perched next to one of those fancy chess sets with stone pieces shaped like real knights and everything. Buford didn’t remember ever seeing that particular angel before. Was that possible? He was sure his ma had them all.

If he took the angel with him when he left, would that be wrong? He would deserve a reward for destroying a creature of darkness, wouldn’t he? And his ma would sure love to have one that pretty.

He heard a swoosh behind him, and everything exploded into darkness.

Then, there was nothing.

Cynthia knew something was wrong when she opened her eyes. Grandma, Christophe, and Josie were gathered around her bed.

“What’s going on?”

“We’ve had a little incident,” Grandma said.

A bad feeling started in the pit of her stomach. “What sort of incident?”

“You’d better come and see.”

The quartet trooped down the stairs into the living room. There, tucked in a corner unseen through the window, was a large and long lump wrapped in one of Josie’s tarps. The feeling in her stomach worsened as Cynthia, accompanied by silence, crossed the room and pulled back the plastic. Buford Burford’s face, pale in death, stared up at her. A bloody indentation near the back of his head spoke to the cause.

She replaced the tarp and stood. “How did this happen?”

“He broke into the back yard,” Grandma said. “We had to defend our home.”

“We? Which one of you caved in his skull?”

“That is irrelevant,” the old woman said, prim. “It happened. We need to figure out now what to do with the body. We hoped you could help.”

It was irrelevant, but Cynthia wondered when Buford had entered the property, and who had struck the fatal blow. Had it been Josie in the garage with the tire iron, Grandma in the kitchen with the skillet, or Christophe in the study with the Webster’s Unabridged Dictionary?

“You know, being a vampire doesn’t make me an expert at body disposal.”

“My apologies. I don’t really know what you do when you go out at night, dear. I just hoped you’d have an idea.”

Cynthia’s mind raced. “We can’t call the police. They’d ask a lot of questions, especially after what happened last month. What was Security doing while this was happening? Someone must have let him in.”

“They’re supposed to have a day man for the gate, but half the time they leave it open. While they’re busy towing people’s cars,” Josie grumbled.

They needed to bury him. Cynthia peered out the window, searching for likely locations, while her grandmother went on about crime in the daylight hours. She was babbling, really. The attack must have unnerved her. There was something different about the porch, but she couldn’t figure out what it was. Maybe that was where Buford had made his ill-fated attempt to break into the house. He would have tried to jimmy the door, and–

“Grandma,” Cynthia interrupted, “Did you move the telescope? I thought I’d left it over near that wall.”

“Theft is rampant. I’ll call Heather first thing in the morning. At least we got a free edger out of it. They’re not interchangeable, of course–”

“Grandma,” she said with more emphasis, “what happened to the telescope?”

Christophe stepped in. “It was a casualty of the invasion.”

“A casualty? What do you mean, a casualty? Did he knock it over and break one of the lenses?” Her voice had gone up an octave in pitch.

“No,” he said gently, “I’m afraid it gave its life for yours. So to speak.”

“Gave its life? What did you do with it? What did the three of you do with it?”

“It wasn’t intentional. It was the only weapon at hand.”

“Weapon? You killed Buford with my telescope?” She growled and her family instinctively stepped back. “No wonder you won’t tell me who did it! Do you know how much I loved that telescope? Do you know how much it cost? I bought that with my first faculty paycheck! Did you know that I drove it across the country myself, so the movers wouldn’t break it? And the three of you couldn’t handle Buford without breaking it?”

“I’m sorry,” Christophe said softly, as if speaking to a homicidal maniac. “We failed you.”

“We’ll get you a new telescope,” Grandma whispered.

“A better telescope.” Josie added, voice hoarse. “With bigger lenses.”

“Really?”

A quick plan was drawn up. Grandma went to the Home Depot with Christophe to purchase some rose bushes, taking Cynthia’s vehicle. Cynthia called her students to let them know that a family emergency had come up and class was canceled for the evening. Meanwhile, Josie broke out the shovels.

They went out to the back and began breaking up the soil at the edge of the concrete patio. Cynthia knew she was probably chopping up the blond grass more savagely than necessary. Josie was giving her a wide berth.

The work was slow and dirty. Cynthia’s jeans became speckled with tiny clods of earth, and Josie got a smear across her forehead. It seemed like forever before they heard the garage door opening, signaling the return of the rose hunters. The two stood upright and stretched.

“Do you think we should go help them?” Josie asked.

“Absolutely not. If we track this dirt into the house, there’ll be more bodies to bury.”

“Works for me.”

After a brief wait, Christophe came through the back doors, carrying one of the bushes in his arms. To her surprise, Dylan followed close behind, sensibly dressed in denim and a tee. He carried two large bags. They stepped down to the patio and set their burdens down where Cynthia indicated. She studied the bags.

“Grass seed and river stone?”

“Grass seed for the outlying areas, river stone to go around the bushes.”

“Not mulch?”

“The ground’s too dry here. You need something that’ll hold the soil, keep it from blowing away.”

“I’ll defer to the local gardener, then.” Cynthia pointed to the area beyond the longest edge of the concrete. “This looked like the best place to dig a trench. It’ll need to be at least… seven feet by two or three wide. We can park him on his side to save space.”

Josie groaned. “How far down?”

“How far down do we need to dig for roses, Grandma?”

“Roses root pretty deeply. Maybe we should take the flat-on-the-back approach. Otherwise, the hole will collapse in on itself before it’s dug.”

The phone inside the house rang.

Who the hell could it be? Cynthia crossed the patio and yanked off her boots before entering the house.

“It’s me, honey.” Heather “The Bitch” Bishop. Cynthia ground her fangs. “I didn’t want to bother you so late, but I need to speak to your grandmother about the digging going on at your house.”

Damn and double damn. “She thought it would be nice to add some roses around the courtyard. Is there a problem with that? It’s not visible from the street.”

“Just let me speak to Eleanor, dear.”

With a deep sigh, Cynthia handed the phone to her grandmother, who had followed her inside, spade clutched in one hand.

“Sorry,” she whispered as her grandmother held the phone up to her ear.

The older woman made a few soothing ‘hums’ as the squawking from the phone continued, but the muscles were working in her jaw. Then she stiffened. “A complaint? Who would complain about some nice rose bushes they couldn’t even see? Well, I’d like to make a complaint too. I don’t think my neighbors should be spying into my back yard in the middle of the night.”

Cynthia reached out to the phone. “You don’t have to do this. Let me talk to her.”

Grandma swatted her hand away. “Who called you? You do so have to divulge that information, Heather. There’s no such thing as busybody-Neighborhood Association confidentiality. I have the right to confront my accuser. This is America!”

Grandma began tapping the spade handle on the kitchen island, leaving little scratches. “I’m going to report this person to the police as a peeping Tom. Why else would they know about what goes on in my back yard? Either you tell me, or I’m going to see about getting a subpoena for you, since you could just as easily be lying about someone else being involved. Your property is the only one with a rear view of mine; what have you been doing? Watching me with binoculars? Is that why this house was on the market at such a low price? Hello?”

She snapped the phone shut, then noticed the scratches on the counter. “Oops. Well, dear, let’s get back to our rose bushes.”

“There is that clause about ‘only approved displays’ in our deed. I didn’t think rose bushes counted as a bad thing, but the committee did say no. They could take us to court.”

“It’s not a ‘display’, it’s simply a few bushes for my private enjoyment in our courtyard. If that harridan wants to make an issue of it, let her.”

“Grandma, I can’t go to court. They’ll probably schedule it for the daytime.”

Eleanor chuckled and patted her cheek. “Dear, you’re not the one who’ll be going to court. I will. The house is in my name.”

They returned to the back patio, which now held more bushes and bags.

“Just the usual harassment from Heather,” Grandma said. “I think she’s watching us from her back window. Unfortunately, I don’t think we can bring Mr. Burford out here under these circumstances. I propose that we shut off the lights and go inside for a while. That busybody will probably expect us to sneak back out here later, but she’ll also be expecting us to put the lights back on. Perhaps, in a bit, Cynthia and Dylan could bring out the other bags in the dark, one tarp among them. The tarp covers the hole, our unwanted visitor goes under it. We start digging again later, she sees that we brought bags out and a tarp to cover the hole. She doesn’t get a good view in between.”

“You didn’t tell me your grandmother was so brilliant,” Dylan said to Christophe. “If we’re going in for milk and cookies, I demand a story, too.”

Christophe eyed him carefully. “What sort of story?”

“Since we’re all going to be criminally complicit in this, I’d at least like to know who this man is and why he followed you all the way from North Carolina.”

“Yeah!” Josie said.

Once everyone was settled in the living room, with curtains drawn, Grandma went to the kitchen to make tea. At her insistence, they had all left their footgear outside.

“Okay, I guess this should start with me.” Cynthia took a deep and mostly unnecessary breath. “I didn’t just come to California because I needed different hours. I also needed to get away from someone. There’s this man that’s been after me since North Carolina. A minister.”

“That naughty devil worshipper Copernicus,” Dylan said. “He lured you into his blasphemy.”

“Ha, ha, very funny. This is serious. His daughter was involved with the woman that made me into a vampire. Penelope. She’s dead now.”

“The daughter or the vampire? Referring to the latter as dead is redundant, of course.”

Cynthia growled. “Quit needling me, Dylan or I stop now. This is hard enough.”

He held up a hand in supplication. “I shall desist. Pray continue.”

“His daughter, Roberta, was romantically involved with Penelope. The two had been meeting in the woods, and he caught them one night. Penelope fled when he started bellowing Bible verses, and he was beating his daughter when I came across them. I’d been up on one of the nearby hills getting a better look at Saturn.”

“Of course you were,” Dylan agreed.

“Stargazing is easier in the country,” Cynthia said defensively. “I was heading back to my car when I saw a man beating a young woman. I ran over and stopped him.”

The older vampire laughed. “You and your brother both have this knight complex, don’t you?”

This was met by another growl.

“I can’t help it this time! You each rescued someone in distress.”

He did have a point. That was how she’d met Josie, too.

Dylan continued, “And the fair maiden became your new girlfriend.”

“No! She had me take her to Penelope’s house. We all talked and became friends.”

“But that wasn’t the end of the story.”

“No. The minister–the Reverend W. Robert Merrimon–showed up at the house regularly to harass them. Pen had to get a restraining order against him.”

“Let me guess. She asked you to hang around during the day to watch over her safety.”

“Exactly. And then,” Cynthia stopped and looked at the tips of her boots. “Pen and I became closer. She told me getting involved with a girl of nineteen had been a mistake. She wanted a woman closer to her own age. She wanted… me.” Cynthia stopped talking as shame and memory washed over her.

After a moment, Dylan cleared his throat. “You’ve stopped talking. What happened next?”

“I was already half in love with her. She was beautiful and intelligent and I was stupid. I followed my heart instead of my conscience. I knew Roberta still loved her. I told myself that it was just a crush she’d get over, and she’d meet the right person for her later.”

“She didn’t?”

“No.” Cynthia’s voice fell to a whisper. “Penelope broke it off with her, and she left. I told Roberta we’d send her anywhere she wanted to go so she wouldn’t have to return to her father. Instead, she went home and hung herself in his parlor while he was at church.”

Josie, who had hardly blinked during the narrative, drew her breath in sharply.

“Which is when he went Van Helsing on you,” Dylan concluded.

Cynthia shook her head. “Not yet. He showed up at the house with a gun. He shot both of us, which killed me and just made her mad. She did that thing with the hissing and fangs and ran him off. She wanted me back, so she made me into a vampire.”

“The two of you should have non-lived happily ever after at that point, shouldn’t you? All you’d have to do is disappear.”

“Pen begged me to leave, but I–” her breath caught, “–I had to finish out the semester. I had a contract.”

“Ah. Your sense of duty,” Dylan said gently. “You stayed, and he came back.”

“Yes. He got Buford and they ambushed us. Christophe was at the house, watching over us, and nearly got killed, too.”

Dylan patted her sibling’s knee. “Always the loyal brother.”

“The nephew, Buford, the man we’re burying outside, jumped him while the Reverend came in the back way. I woke up and heard fighting on the floor above me. I ran upstairs and got scorched by the light from the windows while I helped my brother out. Scorching makes this godawful smell, by the way. Penelope was gone already. Merrimon had dragged her outside into full daylight.”

Dylan winced.

Grandma returned, bearing a tray with teapot and cups. Everyone took some, except Josie, who was sniffling again. The older woman sat next to the teen and put an arm around her waist.

“I sent Christophe to California to heal, and stayed in a nearby hotel until the semester ended. That’s really all of it,” Cynthia said, dismayed that she had managed to upset Josie again without even knowing how. Was it simply referring to her former lover that had done it? “I just don’t understand how he found me out here. I literally moved across the country, and I’m not even listed as faculty yet on the department’s website. He’d have had to identify university astronomy departments across the country, then go through the staff directory at each institution to find my name. And what if I hadn’t gone back into teaching?”

“Hmm. Tell me–did you ever feed from him?” Dylan asked, a thoughtful expression on his face.

“No.” She slapped her forehead. “Buford! I bit him right after I pulled him off Christophe. I was really hurt, and I was starving.”

“That’s how Goodman Merrimon has been finding you again and again. Feeding from someone creates a bond. They can sense you, you can sense them. The Reverend was using his nephew to locate you.”

It also explained how Imogene had been able to find Cynthia on the night of the party. “Well, that’s one resource Merrimon no longer has.”

When Grandma decided an appropriate amount of time had passed, Cynthia and Dylan slipped out of the house. It was truly dark now; most of the homes around them no longer had lights, and the sky was still moonless. The patio, however, radiated in faint indigo against the purple-black of the lawn. She carried more bags of river stone to the edge of the trench, while Dylan handled the body. He maneuvered so casually and easily with the tarp, one would hardly believe it contained the weight of a dead man.

Cynthia held her breath as he spread the tarp over the trench. To her, the thump of Buford’s corpse was clear, but she doubted that Heather heard it at all. She stared at the rear of the Bishop house, unlit with drawn curtains.

“Go get the others,” she whispered to Dylan. “I want to see what happens when the patio lights come on.”

She heard him walk away, heard the door open. After a moment, the patio area was brilliantly illuminated, and the voices of the others reached her ears. Within fifteen seconds, she saw movement at one of Heather’s windows. The curtains parted halfway, and Cynthia was sure she saw the glint of lenses in the blackness beyond.

“We’re being watched,” Cynthia reported.

“Don’t worry,” Grandma said. “She can call all she wants. I’ve shut the ringer off this time.”

They took up their tools and went to work.

Saturday passed without incident, although Cynthia and Grandma privately agreed that trouble would surely arrive Monday morning. Sunday evening, Cynthia arose at a quite acceptable 5 PM. Finally, finally, daylight savings time was over. The world suddenly seemed wide open, restoring possibilities to her. She could live again. Well, sort of.

“You’re up early,” Josie said when Cynthia joined her in the library.

“Time is finally being kinder to me.”

The teen asked cautiously, “So, are you talking to me again?”

“I didn’t mean to cut you off before. I simply had no idea what to say that wouldn’t upset you.”

“Well, duh. No one likes being rejected.” She sat back from the computer. “So, if I weren’t underage, would you be interested in me?”

“It would be inappropriate for me to comment either way. However, I will say that I have always found intelligent women attractive.”

“Oh. Well, that leaves me out.”

“Pursuing me does bring your intelligence into question.” Cynthia remembered Dylan’s remarks about sharing blood. “Tell me, were you interested in any other females before we met?”

Josie stretched. “Oh… maybe.”

“Is that why you left home?”

The dark head nodded. “My parents weren’t very happy about it.”

“Did they throw you out?”

“I wish. They asked my Aunt Michelle for advice instead. My cousin Phil was gay, see, and she sent him to this camp. Camp Chrysalis. It fixed him right up, she said.”

Cynthia frowned with distaste. “I’ve heard about those camps.”

“They were going to send me to one. I heard Ma talking to them on the phone. She thought I was at school, but I cut class. I knew something was up.”

Cynthia shook her head. “Those camps don’t work if you’re really gay. They can try to scare you into behaving, but you can’t change that sort of thing. It’s biological. I could pull up some studies for–I’ll shut up now. Tell me more.”

“It made Phil into some sort of religious robot. I used to be able to talk to him, but then he started spouting Scripture every time I tried talking to him about anything important. It didn’t really fix him. He shot himself.”

“Oh, Josie!” Cynthia put an arm around the girl and hugged her. “No wonder you cried when I was talking about Roberta.”

Josie sniffled. “They’d rather I die than be queer. I hate them!”

“Maybe one day they’ll know better. I’m sure they miss you.”

“No, they don’t,” the teen muttered. “Not after what I did.”

“What did you do?”

“I bought a can of spray primer at the hardware store before I left. After everyone was asleep, I sprayed ‘Pig Fuckers’ on the roof of the barn.”

Cynthia couldn’t help but laugh. “Subtle as always.”

Even Josie was half-smiling herself. “I took the distributor caps from our cars, too, and dropped them in the creek on my way out.”

“You traveled on foot?”

“No, on my bike. I figured Pop would report any car I took as stolen and they’d use it to track me.”

“You didn’t have a bike by the time I found you. Did you have to trade it for food?”

Her image of a starving Josie was quickly shattered. “Hah! I’d just have shoplifted something. I left the bike at a Goodwill near Blackw–near the highway. I didn’t think anyone who’d give me a ride was going to conveniently have a bicycle rack on their car.”

“One other question: are you the one who broke my telescope?”

“What makes you think that? It was a school day.”

“Grandma or Christophe would have ‘fessed up. The fact that they didn’t makes me think that they were keeping their mouths shut for someone else’s sake.”

Josie blushed. “I was upset after our fight. I cried a lot and I didn’t have much of a voice in the morning. Grandma told me to stay home and try to get some sleep. She’d gone to get some stuff to make soup for me when I heard that little turd open the back gate. I’m sorry… it was the only weapon at hand when I got down there. I should have gotten a tire iron from the garage.”

“He could have staked me by then. You did the right thing.”

Her answer was an uncertain smile.

The notice arrived on Monday. Cynthia arose, and went directly to the kitchen. “Where is it? I know we have some sort of billet-doux from Heather.”

Grandma indicated the white form near the phone. “You won’t like what you see. It came by messenger, and the young man even requested that I sign to verify reception of the notice.”

“Ah... From the Board of Directors of the Slippery Elm Community. ‘It is with regret that we...’ Foreclosure? They can’t foreclose on our house!”

“Yes, they can. We’ve never paid any of the fines they’ve levied on us, and apparently we’re supposed to pay up before contesting any citations. We’re also on probation for the first six months of tenancy, and that bitch is on a mission to run us out. She’ll nickel-and-dime us until we’re evicted.”

Cynthia crumpled the notice in one fist. Maybe if she gave Heather some of her blood… was that how she was going to solve all her problems now? Force her will on everyone? Revulsion shook her to the core. “This isn’t right. There’s got to be a legal way to beat this.”

“If you want to contest it, we have thirty days to respond.”

“Then respond we will. Oh, Grandma,” she put her arms around the older woman’s waist, “This is my fault. I brought us here, I brought Josie here, and I’m the one with the weird hours. And I had just begun to believe things were going to work out.”

Grandma stroked her hair. “They’ll work out. This is just a new snag.”

Cynthia looked up. “But you said that we can’t afford to move.”

“Not to another gated community, but we’ll manage if we have to. We’ll downgrade to an apartment, if necessary,” Grandma stated matter-of-factly.

“Christophe will be staying with Dylan, I suppose. He’ll be safe, but how can I keep you safe without some sort of external security?” Cynthia asked.

“We’ve done very well so far. We’ve repelled two invasions, which demonstrate the true quality of the security here, or lack thereof. You haven’t woken up with a stake in your heart, have you?”

Cynthia snorted with laughter despite herself. “I wouldn’t wake up, you know. It’d be fatal.”

“A stake in the heart is fatal to everyone, dear.”

They both chuckled.

There was nothing they could do but go through the proper channels to challenge their ejection from Slippery Elm, and most of that would have to be done in the daytime. It would also have to be done by Grandma, since it was her name on the deed.

Josie received the news with the expected amount of bad language. No one corrected her, since this was an occasion meriting some unpleasant words. Without warning, though, the stream of invective ended in tears.

“This is my fault,” Josie wailed. “I shouldn’t have hit him so hard.”

Grandma wrapped her arms around the teen. “What’s done is done, dear. He certainly didn’t come to bring us flowers.”

“They can’t do this to you,” Josie said to Cynthia. “You’re a vampire.”

“I think a lawyer would be better for this situation. Perhaps Dylan could steer us in the right direction.”

“I taught you the easier way of handling such problems,” Dylan said. “This is one woman pursuing a vendetta, not villagers with pitchforks and torches. It would be quieter and more discreet to bind her.”

“I did consider it, but it’s a slippery slope to a person I don’t want to be. Besides, Heather has already begun the legal proceedings.”

“Then the genie is out of the bottle. May I offer the services of my attorney? He’s handled a number of issues for me over the years, most notably where zoning has been an issue. He’s familiar with bureaucracies, and he doesn’t ask questions.”

“One of your former conquests?”

“Absolutely not. I never mix sex with business. They’re bad influences on one other.”

“Well, we’d appreciate any help we can get.”

“Anything for family, which we shall be soon. Don’t mention that to anyone yet. In the meantime, try not to do anything that requires further midnight gardening.”

Their formal challenge of the eviction was set for the next homeowner’s meeting, which gave them little more than a week to prepare.

“Who’s on this Board of Directors?” Josie asked. “Is the battleaxe on it?”

“Yes, since she is the president of the Association,” Grandma said. “The people who hold other offices, like treasurer, are on it too, and representatives from The Company.”

“The Company?”

“Usually the builders and realtors are represented on the Board of Directors. In this case, one company does both.”

Merrimon knew something bad had happened to his nephew. The lawn care supervisor, Mr. Evans, had called to ask if Bu had gotten a ride home. Buford hadn’t shown up at the end of the shift, had disappeared altogether, and a company edger had disappeared with him. Evans was convinced that Buford was trying to duck out of paying for some damage he’d done at Slippery Elm. The Reverend knew that where Buford was concerned, there was only a fifty-fifty chance it had been related to his actual mission. Merrimon assured the irate overseer that his nephew was a fine upstanding young man and, one way or another, the damages would be covered. His lips moved in silent prayer as he closed the phone. He hoped Buford hadn’t become one of them.

After some thought, Merrimon went into the living room and asked to speak to 2-Way. When the would-be gangsta joined him in his room, Merrimon told him it was time to go to Plan C. It would cost him what he had left from selling his house in North Carolina, but it was time to pull out all the stops. “Call your nasty friend. We’re going to need his help.”

Dylan’s attorney, Gianni De Luca, wasted no time contacting Cynthia’s grandmother. He invited her to come to his offices in Laguna Beach, where he received her with many courtesies. His assistant, who was also his daughter, made copies of the deed, the covenant agreement all Slippery Elm residents signed, and the citations they had received since moving in. Once that was done, he sent Grandma with his daughter to a restaurant overlooking the surf, where they had a fine lunch.

“He had already done some preliminary research,” Grandma reported to Cynthia. “He seems to be a very thorough man. By the time we returned, he had gone over everything and had a list of ‘useful questions’, as he put it. I couldn’t answer them all, but I–”

Josie came running into the living room. “Hey, I just pulled up the Slippery Slum site. You have to come see this.”

“I answered the ones I could.” Grandma finished, and stood. Cynthia followed her into the study.

“War of the Roses,” the headline screamed. “By edict of the Bishop, only members of her inner court are permitted to possess these lovely blossoms. This didn’t stop the Lady of Aquitaine. In dark of night, her servants crept down to the garden and–voila!–roses bloomed in her courtyard the following morning.

“The Bishop has called in the Cardinals to decide the fate of the Lady and her loyal knights,” the teen read aloud. “Will they be excommunicated from the Kingdom?”

2-Way called Masta Nasty and asked him to set up another meeting between Merrimon and Little Breaker, Masta’s friend in the arms dealing business. They had more business to conduct. He also extended an invitation to Masta to join him in serious action against some rich crackers that needed taking down. His friend agreed, and 2-Way could barely contain himself. For once, he’d have a friend there that would really watch his back. The Rev had a great calling, but he needed more people around who knew what they were doing.

After the details were worked out, Merrimon had 2-Way drive him to the U-Haul office. He informed his assistant that he would be making some other purchases, and to expect heavy lifting to be a part of the new plan. He also suggested that 2-Way get some more holy water.

2-Way returned to La Iglesia De La Immaculada, since it had such a convenient fountain. He was filling the Princess jug again when Father Dominic appeared at his side.

“You’re back, I see, but where is your friend?”

2-Way shook his head, sad eyes downcast.

“He was lost to the forces of evil?” the priest asked.

“Yeah.”

“You are very brave to keep fighting. Perhaps you would like to come to Mass on Sunday. With God on your side, you cannot lose.”

“I ain’t got till Sunday.”

The priest studied him for a moment. “I noticed, when I came in, that you have revised your tonsorial symbolism.”

“My what?”

“Your hair. Perhaps you would like to come purchase a crucifix. I would be more than happy to bless it for you.”

“Yeah!” 2-Way said. “That’s what I need.”

Cynthia, Josie, and Grandma were sitting around the phone, which had been relocated to the living room. They were awaiting an update from Dylan’s lawyer, who, according to Grandma, had not even balked when requested to contact the household after 5 PM.

The phone rang and Cynthia got to it first. “Hello?”

“We have Herman,” a muffled voice said in her ear.

She lowered the phone and stared at the Caller ID display. “Herman Bauer” was listed. She put it back up to her cheek. “What?”

“We have Herman,” the voice repeated, louder but still as muffled-sounding. What were they doing, talking through a pillow?

“Is this some sort of joke?”

“No joke.”

“Very well, you have Herman. What of it?”

Grandma gasped and reached under Cynthia to switch the phone to speaker mode. “What have you done to Herman?”

“Nothing… yet. Put the vampire back on the line.”

Recognition dawned. “It’s the Reverend. You prick!” Cynthia shouted.

“You don’t know who I am. But I know who you are, and I know someone over there likes this old coot. If your grandma wants to invite him for Thanksgiving dinner, you’ll do as I say.”

Cynthia thumped her fist on her thigh, trying to contain her anger. “What do you want?”

“I want you to come over for a little chat. Just you. No cops, no allies.”

“I see. And why would I do that?”

“What do you mean, why would you do that?” Grandma cried. “It’s Herman!”

“No grandmothers, either.”

“Or teenagers,” another voice, fainter, said.

“Shaddap, you doofus. That’s the deal, spawn of Lilith. Come on over.” The click signified the end of the call.

Grandma was wringing her hands. Cynthia had read about people wringing their hands, but had never seen anyone actually do it. “What do we do now?”

“I guess I’m going to go make a call at Herman’s house.” Cynthia stood. “Call Christophe and Dylan, tell them what’s going on. I need to get ready for this visit.”

The smell of gasoline was evident to her before she even reached the door. As she suspected, it was a trap. The sensible part of her wanted to turn around and leave, but she knew better. Merrimon had taken a hostage, and too many people had already been hurt on her behalf. Not always physically, either. There was a large footprint denting the lower half of the door. They’d invaded by force. This had to stop, and stop now. Cynthia gingerly pressed down on the door’s handle and nudged it open with her foot..

The entrance corridor and rooms were unlit, but thanks to her new and improved night vision, she saw that the house was nearly identical to theirs in layout and basic colors. The major differences were in furniture and decorations. Herman’s late wife must have been fond of pastels and light-colored woods. She noticed the first major divergence when she got to the room that was the Chambers library and study area: this space had been converted into a rec room, one with a large flat-screen TV and video controls. A half-eaten sandwich rested on a plate next to an open bag of Doritos. Incongruously, a casserole dish sat beside them. Fresh, too; it was warm enough to be surrounded by a faint reddish glow.

No sign of people yet. Cynthia moved past the hall closet and deeper into the house with a sideways crab-step. She peered into the distant darkness, looking for signs of body heat, and her foot bumped into something. It fell over with a thump. This was followed by another thump, and another one. A row of garden stakes were propped along the walls of the hallway, and she’d created a domino effect. Someone had spent a lot of time setting up this house to intimidate her. It was working, too.

“Is that you?” the Reverend’s voice called from the nearby den. “Come in here slowly, and keep your hands out and up.”

“Stop!” Herman’s voice called from a distance. “It’s a trap!”

She didn’t need Herman to tell her that; the gasoline stench was stronger in the direction of the room. “I don’t think so. Merrimon! Release your hostage and come out here. Then we’ll talk,” she called back.

The closet door opened behind her, and a voice said, “Get in there.” Cynthia turned, and blinding pain made her cringe and turn her head. She peeked between trembling fingers and saw the glint of a crucifix in a dusky hand. Shit! Something else the movies had gotten right.

Cynthia backed away from the pain. Merrimon’s new companion moved with her, herding her away from the exits, pressing forward until she had entered the darkened living room. This made no sense. With the lights out, wouldn’t she have the advantage? The room felt unusually crowded.

Suddenly, light exploded around her. “Cower from the radiance of God, foul creature!”

She shrank back, the nightmare of Penelope’s death flashing through her mind for the thousandth time, before she realized that the glaring light was not the radiance of God. The room was crowded because it was filled with sun lamps and tanning beds, set upright and pointing towards the center of the room. Merrimon stood nearby, next to a conglomeration of power strips. He wore wraparound sunglasses and a big grin. His face glistened in the light.

Cynthia’s face, hands, neck, every part of her skin not covered by clothing became hot and painful. It wasn’t as bad as true sunlight, but it hurt.

BLAM! Bullets slammed into her chest–through her chest–and knocked her onto her back. The gleaming visage of the companion, now also in sunglasses, loomed over her. He had a stake in one hand, a mallet in the other.

She grabbed for his bare arm and her hand came away greasy. They were wearing sunscreen, the rat bastards.

He stabbed down with the stake and she quickly rolled out of the way. This time, she grabbed for his sleeve and made purchase. She pinned his stake arm to his side; he struck her with the mallet. It hurt wherever it touched her bare skin.

A movement on the edge of her vision caught her attention and she turned, dragging the stake-wielding idiot with her. Merrimon halted in mid-lunge and eyed her. “You can’t escape. Even now, the light is burning you. No vampire can stand the light.”

After he spoke, there was a definite popping sound and the lamps and lights abruptly went out. The room didn’t stay dark for long; one of the overloaded wall outlets threw off sparks as it shorted and the rug caught on fire.

“Damn it, 2-Way! You said nothing spilled!”

“It just sloshed a little!”

2-Way? He didn’t look like a radio enthusiast. Cynthia shoved him at Merrimon and ran towards the direction of Herman’s voice. The loud shriek of a smoke alarm drowned out the cries behind her. She leapt over now-useless extension cords and ran into the family room.

Herman was duct-taped to one of two chairs in the center of this room; Heather was taped to the second. Standing behind them was a third man, holding a gun pointed at Herman’s head. “I’d be careful if I were you. I might get nervous. My hand twitches when I’m nervous.”

Merrimon and 2-Way came in behind her. She was surrounded.

“Now, before we continue,” Merrimon said, “it’s time you apologized for what you did to my family.”

“What I did to your family?” The man was crazy. Didn’t he realize the house was burning down? She sensed 2-Way edging around to her side, towards her blind spot, but she never took her eyes away from the third man’s gun. “If you hadn’t been beating your daughter that night, I would never have even met you or your family.”

“You should have minded your own business.”

“I saw a man beating a woman, and you expected me to do nothing about it?”

“No, no, I understand that. You didn’t know any better. But you should have left it at that. You got involved.”

“Your daughter needed help.”

“She did, but you still killed her, you know.”

She faced him. She met his clear blue eyes with her own in an exchange of optic rage. “You idiot! Pen choosing me over her was the best thing that could have happened to her in your book. She wasn’t going to be around the nasty vampire any more.”

He sighed with exasperation. “You don’t get it, do you? You were the worst thing that could have happened to her.”

“Me?” She was confused.

“You!” Merrimon spat. “You’re the one that swooped in and rescued her. You’re the one who wanted her to go back to college and make something of herself instead of becoming a live-in slave to that succubus. You’re the one who wanted her to think for herself. Then you were seduced by that foul woman and cast out Roberta.”

A horrible feeling crept up her spine. “We didn’t cast her out. I moved into the house. I told her she was free.”

“She was alone,” Merrimon snapped. “She didn’t have me, and she didn’t have you, either. Are you stupid enough to think it was losing that fickle bitch that drove her over the edge? No, it was you!”

Once again, Cynthia felt totally clueless. “I’m… sorry. I didn’t know. But, destroying me isn’t going to bring her back. Hell, it’s destroying both of us.”

“I don’t care what happens to me,” Merrimon said. “I can die happy in this fire if I know I’ve done this one thing.”

“Maybe you can die happy in this fire,” the third man said, “but I didn’t sign on for that.” He poked Herman in the neck with the Glock, raising his voice above the squeal of the smoke alarm. “Go ahead and do her, or I kill them both!”

2-Way advanced on Cynthia, stake in hand. The minister picked up a gas can and followed. Cynthia froze, unsure of what she should do. Should she give Merrimon what he wanted in order to save Herman? Or would it really save him and Heather? The man with the gun was obviously the professional of the group. Surely he wouldn’t let witnesses live, even if Merrimon didn’t care. Would Grandma agree with her reasoning? Maybe if they shot Heather first…

The men came closer. Despite herself, Cynthia inched backwards. Suddenly, there was a flutter overhead and 2-Way shrieked in an unnaturally high voice. “A bat! It’s a bat, Rev!”

“Hell, shoot it!”

2-Way pulled out his pistol and fired, blowing a hole in Herman’s ceiling. Heather wailed and Herman fainted.

Even with her unlife in danger and within twenty feet of a raging fire, Cynthia observed that it was a fruit bat. It had to be Dylan. How fast could a fruit bat fly, anyway?

A shimmer, and Dylan, dressed in leathers as he was on the night they met, stood before them. He let out a mighty roar, all fangs and glowing eyes in the fire-lit room. Claws, long and twitching, sprung from his hands.

Merrimon and 2-Way jumped back towards the wall. All three men shrieked, eyes fixed on the new arrival.

The gunman’s hand drooped. Cynthia leapt for him. He jerked the gun up and fired. The bullet ripped her shirt, raking her side. Then she was on him. She sunk her fangs deep into his neck and took a long draught. He collapsed into her arms, and she tossed him to the floorboards.

“Masta!” 2-Way dropped his stake and ran towards them with the crucifix. Both vampires flinched, but Dylan produced a gun from a sleeve and fired blindly towards the source of the pain. Drywall shattered again.

“Shit!” 2-Way screamed.

Merrimon’s voice. “Come on. We can’t help your friend.”

Then the pain was gone and the vampires were alone in the burning room with the hostages. Correction: just the two hostages. The floorboards were vampire-hunter-free.

“Where did the other guy go?” They scanned the room through thick rolls of smoke.

“Looks like he’s buggered off.” Dylan turned to her. “I apologize for the dramatic entrance. There was a smash-up near El Toro Road, and I thought it best to take a more direct route.”

“Well, you arrived just in time.” She indicated the chairs. “Carry Herman out, please, and see if you can revive him. I need to finish a few things up.”

His eyes slid to Heather. “She’s seen too much. You don’t have a choice anymore. Either bind her or kill her.”

Heather whimpered through her gag.

“I know,” Cynthia sighed. “Leave me with her.”

Dylan shrugged and hoisted Herman, chair and all, into his arms. “See you outside.” He kicked open the French doors and exited, followed by streamers of smoke.

Cynthia and Heather were alone. They stared at one another.

Since Heather was unable to speak, Cynthia started. “What am I going to do with you? You’ve seen the fangs and the bat stuff. If there’s a way to make you un-remember, I don’t know it.”

“Mmff,” said Heather.

“I do know this, though,” Cynthia grabbed the front of Heather’s shirt, including the bra, and jerked her off the ground. The chair came with her. “You’ve made my family’s life hell since we got here, when we did nothing to you. We moved here because we thought it was safe. Safe, do you hear me? Look around you! Do you call this safe?”

She shook Heather hard, then slammed the chair to the floor. “We’re tired of dealing with your constant harassment! More to the point, I’m tired of your harassment. So, listen. We’re not moving. Get used to it. Call off the dogs, or I’ll give you some real problems. Do you understand?”

Cynthia tore off the gag. Heather screamed, gasped for air, and coughed.

“Understand?” Heat licked at her back. She ignored it.

“Yes,” the older woman babbled, glassy-eyed.

Cynthia tore the sleeve from her own wrist and traced a thin line into the flesh with her claw. The dark blood welled up at her bidding.

She shoved the wrist to Heather’s lips. “Drink.”

Heather shrank from her. “No, no…”

“Either drink or die. Those are the only options either of us have.”

Weeping, Heather took the wrist and complied. When Cynthia released her, she sank to the floor and coughed. Smoke surrounded her head and shoulders.

It was time to leave. Cynthia grabbed the chair and dragged it outside to the loggia. Dylan, standing next to Herman’s chair, waved from further down the hill.

Cynthia bent over the chair and ripped open the duct tape. Heather sprawled on the concrete briefly, then rolled to her feet and took off running. Good riddance. She headed down the stone path towards Dylan.

Herman was still swooning. “He’s breathing,” Dylan said, “but he probably needs a once-over by a physician.”

Sirens began wailing in the distance, competing with the overwrought smoke alarm in the house and the shouts of neighbors.

“It’s time this Cinderella left the ball. Can you take things from here?”

“Yes,” Cynthia said, and meant it. “Thanks for coming, Dylan.” She lifted Herman over her shoulder and carried him out of the yard. Above her, she heard the brief flutter of bat wings. Quickening her pace, Cynthia scurried up the incline leading to their back patio.

Josie was screwing the garden hose to the faucet when Cynthia’s foot hit concrete again. Grandma ran forward to help with Herman. “Is he all right?”

“He’s all right, I think. Me, not so much.”

“Oh, my.” She took in the bloody gouge in Cynthia’s side, the ripped sleeve, and the soot all over her. Her eyes teared. “You look like a chimney sweep. I’m so glad you’re home, dear,” Grandma said.

Herman was quickly installed in a deck chair. He was finally reviving and accepted Grandma’s ministrations with gratitude. Meanwhile, Josie watered their roof. Cynthia gazed over at the other nearby houses and saw the McCallums doing likewise. This must be the California thing to do. Heather and Jason were in their back yard as well. Jason was running the hose, but Heather simply stared at them.

What would Heather do, now that she knew the truth? What effect would Cynthia’s blood have on her? Forcing Heather to drink was the most revolting, repugnant thing she had ever done.

Her brooding was interrupted by their ward. “I smell pot,” Josie said.

“What?”

Grandma sniffed. “There does seem to be an underlying scent of reefer in the air.”

Herman said nothing.

Merrimon and 2-Way roared up Slippery Elm Drive in the U-Haul, but they were blocked in at the front gate by arriving fire trucks. Once the trucks had passed through, the police followed. One group of officers was clustered around the little hut. They were probably interviewing that Riggs fellow. On their way in, Masta Nasty had solved the problem of their entry by scaling the wall and using his gun to obtain the security man’s cooperation. Masta had wanted to kill Riggs, but Merrimon had overruled him. They were there to stop evil, not murder the innocent.

One man was dusting the trunk of Riggs’ car for fingerprints, which was where they’d left him. Between the cluster of official vehicles and gawking residents, they were boxed in. Merrimon drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. 2-Way, curled up in the passenger seat, wouldn’t stop moaning about his lost friend. The crucifix was still clutched between his fingers, and the Reverend couldn’t help but feel the sting of envy. He should have been the one to use the cross on the vampire, but God had repeatedly turned his back on him since the day his daughter had met Cynthia Leach. How could his cross have power without trust in God?

2-Way began praying and the Reverend twisted around in his seat.

“Get out.”

The young black man looked up with surprise. “What?”

“Get out. You wouldn’t be here at all if it weren’t for me. There’s going to be trouble, and you don’t want to be in it.”

2-Way gaped briefly, then opened the door. Soon, he was lost in the crowd of curious tenants and investigating officials.

The line of cars finally began to move. Gritting his teeth, he slowly nosed the truck towards the exit. The car ahead of him was making a left instead of leaving the neighborhood, and the gates closed before he got to them. They wouldn’t budge, even when he pressed the button.

Ramming the gate was out of the question. The officers were still talking to the security man. He hunted around the seats. There it was–Buford’s spare cap with the lawn service logo. He donned it before tapping the horn.

The security man stopped talking and walked their way. It was that Riggs fellow.

He put on his most ingratiating smile. “Pardon me for bothering you, sir, but the gate won’t open.”

“Are you a resident, sir?”

Merrimon indicated his cap. “No, sir, I normally work with the lawn service. I just came in to do a special delivery for Mr. Wong.”

“Which one?” The question must have triggered a memory. An unpleasant expression of recognition spread across Riggs’ face. “Wait. Didn’t I run you out of here before?” He must have spotted the blood on Merrimon’s shirt, because he suddenly backed up. “Officers!”

Merrimon sighed. There was no way he was going to be able to explain all this to a judge. They just didn’t enforce the same laws he did.

One of the firemen approached with two policemen in tow. Cynthia thought they were going to ask her more questions, but instead, they stopped in front of Herman. “Sir, This is Sergeant Hart, and this is Officer Gordon,” the fireman said.

“Yes. We’d like to talk to you, Mr. Bauer,” the sergeant said.

“Professor Bauer,” he corrected.

“Professor Bauer, we’d like to talk to you about the contents of your house. The Fire Department found something interesting. You’re going to have to go downtown with your partners, business rivals, or whoever your unwanted visitors were. Their car has been detained at the gate.”

Resigned, Herman nodded and followed the sergeant back to his house.

Fortunately, the fire did not spread beyond Herman’s property. It was extinguished and Christophe left for Dylan’s. Everyone, including Cynthia, turned in for some rest.

Grandma was full of information the next evening. Anita McCallum had paid her a visit, mostly to see what she knew about the fire. During the exchange, Grandma had learned a few interesting things of her own.

“So, Heather liked Herman. That explains much,” Cynthia mused.

“She’s been interested in him for some time. Remember that comment in the blog about the ‘widow Becket’? A woman named Beckett used to live in this house. Anita says that Herman became too familiar with her after her husband died, and Heather gave her the same treatment we’ve been getting. She succeeded in driving her away.”

“Did you learn anything about Herman?”

“No, I’m afraid not.” She picked up the newspaper and handed it to Cynthia. “There’s an article here about the fire. The police found the remains of several plants in Herman’s storeroom, and they think those were marijuana plants.”

“Oh, dear.” Cynthia scanned the page. “Any chance it was medical marijuana?”

“Read paragraph six. He wasn’t licensed to grow nor sell marijuana.”

“I see that they’re confused about the tanning beds in the living room. I don’t blame them.”

“Yes. The prevailing theories are that Herman was expanding his operation, growing more plants, or that he planned to use the tanning beds to dry the marijuana more quickly. They believe that his house was invaded by people who wanted to use it themselves.”

“If Herman gets to come home, will you still be seeing him?”

“Dear, I already knew that he smoked left-handed cigarettes. I did teach college in the Seventies, and he didn’t wear cologne all the time.”

Cynthia sat down with surprise. “You knew he smoked pot? Why didn’t you tell us?”

“Because I didn’t want to deal with my grandchildren disapproving of my choice in dates. He was a very nice man, and I’ll miss him.”

The seas were stormy. Cynthia clung to the sides of the small sailboat, which bucked and rolled underneath her. Where was the shoreline? Where was the anchor? She could see neither in the gusting rain.

Waves savaged the vessel, jerking her back and forth. “Cynthia!” It was her grandmother’s voice, calling across the gale. “Cynthia!”

Her grandmother shook her, and Cynthia came fully awake. The door to her room was open, and the light quality in the hallway beyond told her that the sun had barely set. She shrunk from the remnants of the day. “The door, the door. Shut it!”

Grandma complied while Cynthia hid under the covers. Then she was shaking her granddaughter again. “Don’t go back to sleep. She’s gone!”

Cynthia poked her head out. “Who’s gone?”

“Josie!” Grandma cried, shoving a sheet of paper in her granddaughter’s face.

Sitting up, Cynthia read:

You’re safe now. You don’t need me any more. I love you all. Josie P.S. Don’t worry, I’ll never tell.         Cynthia hauled herself out of bed. “I’ll go get her. When did you first notice her missing?”

“She took off in her car after lunch. It’s been hours. I didn’t find the note until I began to start dinner and opened the refrigerator. It was taped to the milk.”

“She has a pretty good headstart. Still, there aren’t that many cars with tailfins on the road. People might remember seeing it. Stopping for gas and oil should slow her down, too. Like you said, it sucks fuel like flowers suck water. We can start with the gas stations. Did you call Christophe?”

“Yes, and he’s been out looking for her. He’s had no luck so far, but he said he would call Dylan when the sun set.”

“Good. We’re going to have to cover all the routes in and out of town. I take it Christophe has been searching to the south?”

“I told him I was afraid she was headed to Mexico. It’d be a lot less likely for her to be returned to her parents if she crossed the border.”

No, she wasn’t headed to Mexico. Cynthia had a gut feeling. Maybe the blood-link worked both ways. “Call and tell him I don’t think that’s the case. He and Dylan should try along the Pacific Coast Highway, heading north. I’ll take the 405.”

She ran out to the Range Rover and started it up as it rolled down the driveway. How could this have happened? From what Dylan had said, Josie was bound to her. She shouldn’t have run away. Had he been wrong, or had she misunderstood him? He’d said the blood formed a link. That didn’t mean it would save either of them from heartbreak or guarantee feeling wanted. And she did want Josie. She’d viewed the girl as a complication, then almost as a little sister, until Josie revised her opinion with a kiss.

Thoughts shuttled through Cynthia’s mind as she turned onto the 405 and headed towards Los Angeles. If Josie could leave, she was no slave. She had stayed because she had chosen to, and departed as soon as she felt able. Departed because Cynthia had rejected her, called her a child. Perhaps this meant Josie’s love also sprung from that free will.

Cynthia pressed down harder on the accelerator, unaware that she had stopped breathing altogether. She loved Josie, too. The awareness of love tore into her heart, opening a gulf of light and pain. What a blind idiot she had been, ignorant of her own feelings until they’d been stepped on. Would she ever learn? Had she learned too late?

“Not if I can help it,” she promised herself, weaving between cars. The link did work both ways. She’d been able to find Lucy, the woman from the library, more than once. If she could find Lucy, then she should to be able to find Josie. That’s how she’d known Josie had gone north, not south. That’s how she knew now that Josie had stopped somewhere ahead of her, probably to refill the Frankencar she prized.

Here… this off ramp. She exited the highway and passed two gas stations before she spotted the DeSoto, its sheen of red paint bright in the lights. Josie was bent over the engine, dumping a bottle of motor oil into a plastic funnel. She stiffened and turned to face the direction of the Rover. Yes, she senses me, too.

Cynthia pulled into the lot and parked the car. Josie slammed the hood shut and tossed away the empty bottle. She was wiping her hands when Cynthia reached her.

“How’s the Adventurer handling?”

“Pretty good.”

“It’s a lucky car, to have your devotion.”

“Thanks.”

Cynthia swallowed hard. Could a vampire get dry mouth? “I was lucky to have your devotion, too.”

“Oh. Um, thanks again.”

“I’d like it if you came home.”

Josie went over to the windshield cleaner dispenser, lifted the wiper out of the fluid. Using the delay to think? “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea. You’re safe now, and really… well, being there hurts. Hurts me. It’s probably not good for you, either. Me being hung up and making you feel bad. It’s a real load.”

“I feel worse with you gone.”

“You’ll get over it. And I ought to.” Josie ran the wet side over the windshield, then flipped it over to the squeegee. “I just don’t think I will.”

Cynthia gripped the bronze forearm, stopped it in mid-swipe. “Josie, you’re not the only one who’s hung up. I’m hung up, too. I’m just dumber than you are and didn’t figure it out until now.” She set the wiper on the hood and took both hands in hers. “I love you. I want you to come home.”

“You don’t want me the way I want you.”

“Yes, I do. But I want us to come together as adults, as equals. It goes against my conscience to do otherwise. If you truly love me, please wait with me. If you still want me when you turn eighteen, I’m all yours. We have the rest of our lives. Unlife, in my case.”

Josie let out a long, ragged sigh before throwing her arms around Cynthia. “I swear, one day I’m going to pull that stick out of your ass and stake you with it.”

For the first time since moving into Slippery Elm, Cynthia arrived at the monthly homeowners’ meeting before it began. It was ironic that it might be the last. The clubhouse was filled with empty folding chairs, save for the ones she, Grandma, Christophe, and Josie occupied in the front row. Possibly exile row tonight. Tables had been set up behind the podium to accommodate the Board.

Cynthia tried to stop brooding, but her brain had too much time to ruminate. She’d tried calling Heather several times since the fire, but Heather hadn’t answered the phone or returned her messages. She’d even tried dropping by one evening with cookies, but neither Heather nor Jason would come to the door. Cynthia wasn’t certain if she was now incapable of crossing a threshold uninvited, but it would be rude.

Where was everybody? At the very least, the Slippery Slum fellow should be here for pre-event blogging.

She could almost see the intro: “It’s seven-fifteen on a warm November evening in Slippery Elm. The cathedral is quiet except for the hum of the wall clock, the shuffling of papers, and young Lady Josette playing a handheld computer game. Front and center, Lady Eleanor sits before the dais, hands clenched together, lips moving faintly. Is she practicing what she intends to say, or is she praying for mercy? If so, what god would listen here?”

Okay, now it was seven-sixteen. She wanted the meeting to begin, but dreaded it at the same time. In the nearby office, Heather and Tiffany, the Association’s secretary, were running off handouts. Based on how hard the copier was working, Cynthia surmised that it contained a day-to-day summary of Chambers household evils.

Josie and Mr. Button were discussing how to repair a hole in his living room wall. The damage was done by the corner of the coffee table, presumably with assistance. The kids were blaming each other, so Mrs. Button had cut off all television privileges until blame could be properly assessed. Grandma, serene, sat next to Cynthia.

A stranger entered the room and stopped, scanning the room until he spotted them. He was a physically unimposing man, but his eyes were shrewd and the glint of silver at his temples lent him distinction.

Grandma made introductions. “Cynthia, this is Gianni De Luca. Mr. De Luca, this is Cynthia, my granddaughter.”

Christophe moved one chair down as he approached, opening up the seat next to Grandma. De Luca thanked him and sat. He opened his briefcase and began arranging his materials.

The door opened again, and Gerald nodded to her before heading for the office. He was followed by the bald man, who proceeded directly to the tables and began setting up his laptop. Shortly thereafter, Mr. McCallum entered. He wandered around the room like a cat looking for the right spot to curl up–or spray. The right spot was eventually located in the dead center of the room, and he sat. Joni and one of the yard sale ladies arrived next. They waved to Grandma and sought out seats close to the front.

After that, people arrived rapidly, several in groups. The seats around them filled, and Gerald was sent to fetch chairs from the pool area.

When seven-thirty finally arrived, Heather emerged from the office and moved to the lectern. She bore her roster with great ceremony. Tiffany followed, clutching her notebook in both hands like it would escape. Gerald, empty-handed, brought up the rear.

The clubhouse was packed. The story of Eleanor Chamber’s rosebushes seemed to have spread throughout Slippery Elm. She noticed that several of the attendees had tape recorders and laptops. One of them was probably their anonymous blogger. Who would have thought that a few flowering shrubs would generate such excitement? Didn’t these people have lives?

Cynthia leaned over to Josie. “Who are all these people? Do they all live in Slippery Elm?” she whispered.

“I don’t know if they all do, but I’ve seen some of them at the pool. That one over there’s the mom of Jason’s best friend.” She made a face. “Snotty.”

The regular business meeting of the Association went by quickly. Tiffany gave the minutes of the previous meeting. Gerald reported on the status of Slippery Elm’s recreational facilities, including the pool the Slippery Eels used, and announced that the team was doing very well. The batrachian man, whose name was Glatzer, gave a short treasury report before returning to his laptop. Heather did a quick rundown of miscellaneous items, including the latest increase in dues. Homeowner concerns were addressed next, to deafening silence. No one was eager to speak up, and, for once, Heather had no complaints about the behavior of various homeowners.

When the rest of the community’s business had been completed, Heather pulled one sheet out of her stack and handed the rest to Tiffany.

“And now it is time to address the issue I’m sure you are all talking about.”

Here it comes, Cynthia thought. This could go one way or the other.

The middle-aged woman cleared her throat. “Over the weekend, there was an incident here in Slippery Elm. Herman Bauer’s home caught fire and suffered serious damage. The house is probably a loss.”

A general murmur of sympathy rose in the room, but the spectators were leaning forward in their seats. Surely there was more...?

“I am certain that you have all seen or read the news. Mr. Bauer may not be returning to us, depending on what happens in the court system. He may also find himself banned from the community if it is proven that he was violating the Covenants, Conditions, and Regulations of Slippery Elm by engaging in illegal activities in his home.”

Was that what everyone was here for? Not the arson, not the battle, not her family’s impending eviction, but to learn more about Herman’s pot farm? And Grandma thought she was a stuffed shirt.

“In light of this development, I have gained a different perspective on other occurrences that have taken place recently. I believe we may have been placing blame where it didn’t belong.”

“We?” Josie whispered, but was shushed by Grandma.

“Since their arrival in Slippery Elm, there has been a flurry around the Chambers family,” Heather continued. “There were a few disturbances, some minor, some more serious. The most serious of these was a home invasion involving the use of firearms.”

Another murmur, half-sympathetic, half-curious.

“Looking back on this with our new information, it seems to me that living next door to Mr. Bauer might have had more to do with the invasion than any direct action of the family. Our houses do resemble one another.”

“We are, of course, relieved that the only damage done was to property, not to people.”

“On our side, that is,” Christophe whispered, and did a fist bump with Josie.

Heather sighed and flipped over the sheet. Was that resignation in her eyes?

“The other incidents involving the family are quite minor. Most of them happened during the first few weeks they were here, during the time they were still getting used to living within our deed restrictions.

“You may notice that the Membership Council is not up here, nor are representatives from The Company. This is because, after reviewing the overall case, there is no reason to foreclose on the Chambers house at this time.”

Scattered applause echoed through the room. Grandma and Cynthia hugged one another.

“The Treasurer has waived the processing of fines for the dismissed charges, but you will need to pay the fines for the other citations, Professor Chambers.”

Everyone quieted when Grandma rose. She was older than most of the people in the room, but she still had the same erect posture she’d displayed in the pictures with Cynthia and Christophe when they were children. Her hair, cropped close to the head as always, was only slightly softened by the white of age.

“Thank you so much, all of you. In return for your trust, we promise to be good neighbors to everyone.”

Deflated, Heather stared at her notes.

“I know the hour is late,” Grandma continued, “but I would really like to deal with the roses before it snowballs into a worse problem. I asked nicely,” Grandma said, addressing Heather directly. “And I was turned down with no valid reason given.”

“You were given a reason, ma’am. You haven’t been here long enough to make landscape changes.”

Grandma blinked innocently. “Do roses lower my property value?”

Heather raised her voice over the titters. “No, Professor Chambers, but if your relationship with Slippery Elm doesn’t… work out, it may make your property a harder sell to someone who doesn’t want to bother with that much gardening.”

“Ah. It should reassure you, then, when I say that I take my commitments seriously. I have no plans to sell.”

Heather pounced on this triumphantly. “A relationship works two ways. If it is built on certain principles and understandings, deliberately violating them hardly fosters trust.”

Grandma’s brow wrinkled. “I understand your concern and I apologize. But all good relationships are built on compromise. It seems to me that removing the rosebushes now would make my property rather unsightly and unlikely to attract a new owner. If Slippery Elm tells my family and me to get out, how long a grace period will we have to relocate? Do we come home one day and find our suitcases on the curb?”

“Thirty days is the standard notice time.”

“Then let me offer this as an alternative suggestion: if I move for whatever reason, I will take custody of the bushes. My grandchildren and I will uproot them and move them into pots as soon as we receive the notice, and we will have landscapers lay new sod with the appropriate grasses. Naturally, I would pay for all this. Would that be acceptable?”

Heather stared at her. Cynthia could almost see the little cogs grinding against one another in her head, confused by the olive branch. “Well… that does sound reasonable.” Mrs. Bishop finally admitted.

I shall ‘go forth and sin no more’,” Grandma intoned. “Or do my best not to.”

When Cynthia entered the kitchen to greet her grandmother the next evening, she stopped short, stunned by the number of pots, pans, and trays spread across the countertops and tables. “Wow! Where did all of this come from?”

“Our neighbors,” Grandma said. “Most of them say ‘Welcome to the neighborhood’. A little belated, perhaps, but a lovely greeting.”

“I’ve never seen so many casseroles,” Cynthia said, peeling back the foil on one dish. “Green bean. It’s almost like being back home.”

“This is home, dear.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I think we should have a housewarming party as soon as possible. It’s the only way all of this food is going to get eaten before it spoils. Afterwards, if we all work together, we can get the dishes washed and returned before Thanksgiving.”

“Thanksgiving,” Cynthia sighed. “It’s hard to believe so much time has passed since we arrived.”

“But it’s almost here. We have a lot to be thankful for this year, too,” Grandma said. “Reverend Merrimon is in jail, you’re going to continue teaching, and we get to keep our home with the support of our neighbors. Oh, and Josie is back with us. The holidays should be very merry this year. When your father comes down for Thanksgiving, we’ll have a full house.” She stopped to count on her fingers. “I can probably get away with the same size turkey we usually have. You and Dylan will probably be sticking to mashed potatoes and candied yams, but he and Herman, if he’s still out on bail, should make up the difference.”

Once again, it was a cussing occasion, but Cynthia held her tongue.