Eleanor was lying as still as death, her arms at her sides.

"Eleanor," he said, touching her face with the tips of his fingers. "Eleanor, please, wake up."

He put his head close enough to feel her breath on his cheek. Cool breath, not warm. Her skin was cool, too.

"Eleanor," he said again, and this time he thought he saw her eyelids flutter. "Eleanor, wake up. It's me. Michael."

A troubled look crossed her face, as if she resented being disturbed.

"Please ..." he said, placing his hand on hers. "Please." Unable to resist any longer, he bent down to kiss her. But then, remembering Darryl's warning, he put his lips to her eyelids-first one, then the other-instead. It wasn't how he would have chosen to awaken his Sleeping Beauty ... but it was enough.

Her eyes opened, staring straight up at the roof of the van, then shifted toward Michael. For a second, he was afraid she hadn't recognized him.

"I was so afraid," she said. "Afraid that if I opened my eyes, I'd be back in the ice."

"Never again," he said.

She lifted his hand from hers and cradled it against her cheek.

Maria Ramirez made him swear on all that was holy that he would never tell anyone how this strange woman had illegally entered the United States, and Michael made her swear in turn that she would never divulge the true fate of her husband's remains. Then, driving through the muggy night, Maria dropped them off at a little hotel she knew on Collins Avenue, a block from South Beach.

"When we need to bring in a forensics expert from out of town," she said, "it's where we put them. n.o.body's ever complained."

Michael took Eleanor up to the room, turned on all the lights, and started filling the tub for her. The moment the bathroom door closed, he thought he heard a low sob from inside. He was torn between knocking and trying to comfort her, or simply letting her emotions run their course. How could anyone have endured all that she had endured-in the past day or two, or in the centuries that preceded them-without breaking down at some point? And what could he say that would be of the slightest help?

Instead, he went back downstairs and convinced the elderly woman at the front desk to open the boutique shop for him so he could buy a sundress-the most demure he could find, a gauzy yellow cotton with short sleeves-and some sandals. The woman, who'd looked at Eleanor like she was dressed in a Halloween costume, understood, and even threw a couple of other items onto the pile. "Bloomers won't work under that," she said, laconically.

When he got back to the room, he rapped on the bathroom door, then inched it open and dropped the bag of new clothes inside. A cloud of steam billowed out.

"I thought you might like to dress for the climate here," he said, before pulling the door closed again. "If you're hungry, I can go out and get some food."

"No," she said, her voice sounding almost sepulchral, "not right now."

He went to the window, and pulled back the bright floral curtains. A few lights were still on in neighboring buildings. A street-sweeping truck lumbered past. How could he tell her the rest of what she needed to know? That it was not only ice she had to fear ... but human contact. Intimate human contact.

How could he tell her that even though her craving was gone, her contagion was not? That she posed a threat to anyone she might wish to embrace?

How, for that matter, could he tell himself?

Once the rumbling of the street sweeper had faded away, he went back to the bathroom door and wound up spending the next half hour trying to a.s.suage her shocked sensibilities. Eleanor was so appalled at the shortness-and sheerness-of the dress that she would not come out at all until he had sworn-repeatedly-that these were the latest fashions and that everyone dressed that way. "A lot of the time, they wear even less," he said, wondering what she would make of the first bikini-clad rollerblader they pa.s.sed. When she finally relented, and stepped, blushing madly, into the room, she took his breath away.

Even that early, Ocean Drive was busy with traffic, and Eleanor shied away from the buses as if they were fire-breathing dragons. The cars, the clamor, the traffic lights, Eleanor clung to his arm as if it were a life preserver. But whatever warmth she had absorbed from the bath was fast receding; her hand, he noted, was cool.

At Point Adelie, she had confessed the thing she most longed for was the hot sun on her face, and he was eager to show her the sunrise over the ocean. They had just stopped at a crosswalk when a vendor pushing a cart of Italian ices pulled up alongside them, almost the only pedestrians out at that hour, and gave them a hopeful glance. He might as well have been selling dynamite, and as Michael instinctively dragged Eleanor away, the vendor looked at him like he was crazy. But Michael knew the rules, and knew, too, that he was never going to be able to let down his guard. He would always have to be vigilant, and until the time came when the rest of the secret had to be divulged to her, he would also have to be secretive. But why burden her-at that rare moment when she might begin to experience happiness again-with something that he could carry alone?

As they crossed the street and then the scrubby dunes, the sky seemed to fade from an inky purple to a rosy glow. Michael led her past the towering palms, swaying in the sea breeze, and down to the surf. As the sun rose on the horizon, they sat down on the white sand and simply watched. Watched as it climbed up into the sky, turning the ocean into a silver mirror, burnishing the clouds with a ruby hue. Eleanor's green eyes glistened in the morning light, and as a gray-and-white osprey swooped low over the water, she followed its path. It was then that he noticed her rueful smile.

"What is it?" he said.

"I was just thinking of something," she said, her long brown hair, still damp from the bath, blowing loose over her shoulders. "A music hall ditty, from another time."

"How did it go?" He felt her fingers slip through his; exposed to the morning sun, they were perceptibly warmer. The osprey darted between the rolling waves.

" And oh won't there be, by the side of the sea,' " she liltingly recited, " 'coconut palms as tall as St. Paul's, and sand as white as Dover.' "

Her gaze swept across the bright horizon, the broad white beach, and Michael saw something like joy kindled in her eyes. "And so," she said, still clutching his hand, "there are."

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.

ROBERT MASELLO is an award-winning journalist, a television writer, and the author of many other books, most recently the supernatural thrillers Vigil (which appeared on the USA Today bestseller list) and Bestiary. His articles and essays have appeared often in such publications as the Los Angeles Times, New York, People, and Parade, and his nonfiction book, Robert's Rules of Writing, has become a staple in many college cla.s.srooms. His produced television credits include such popular shows as Charmed, Sliders, and Early Edition. A long-standing member of the Writers Guild of America, he lives in Santa Monica, California, and may be reached at www.robertmasello.com [http://www.robertmasello.com].

ALSO BY ROBERT MASELLO.

FICTION.

Vigil.

Bestiary.

Black Horizon.

Private Demons

The Spirit Wood

NONFICTION.

Robert's Rules of Writing.

Writer Tells All.

A Friend in the Business.

Raising h.e.l.l: A Concise History of the Black Arts.

Fallen Angels... and Spirits of the Dark.