"Didn't you want to have kids?"

This didn't sound as accusatory as it might have coming from someone else, like someone who was pushing a stroller at the time for instance. I'd always been the woman explaining why she had no desire to have children. I was about to tell him this, when he spoke again.

"It's a moot point, anyway, since you can't now."

An icy pain knifed through my chest, stealing my breath. I stood and leaned against the sink. "What?"

His face went even greener, if that were possible, but I knew it had nothing to do with the potion. "I'm so sorry. I assumed you knew."

"No, I didn't. It's just...it's okay." I waved a hand in the air, hoping to look blase. "I hadn't really thought about it. I never planned on being a mom. I probably wouldn't have been very good at it."

But now that the choice was taken away from me, I grieved for the loss of the possibility. You're being ridiculous, Carrie.

"I think you would have been a great mother." His words sounded pained, but it could have just been from the violent nausea.

"Yeah, well. Tell that to my last boyfriend."

Nathan sat back against the wall for support. Sweat beaded on his skin, but he didn't look as gray as he had moments before. His eyes searched my face. "Why do you say that?"

Turning to rewet the cloth, I shrugged. I shouldn't have mentioned Eric. Even though we'd broken up nine months before, the wound was suddenly incredibly raw.

To my surprise, I started blabbing the whole stupid story. "Because he dumped me for not being a good-enough mom for his hypothetical children." Despite the painful truth of it, I could still manage a chuckle. "Basically, he seemed to be under the impression that when we graduated from med school, I was going to stay home and bake cookies or something while he had the career. He decided he was going to buy a house near Boston, I told him I was coming here for my internship, and he gave me an ultimatum. When I told him my decision, that I was going to go through with my internship, he said it was for the better. He wanted children, and he couldn't imagine me being a good mother. So that was it."

I'd been looking at my hands, the shower curtain, the towel rack, anything to avoid the sight of Nathan's face. But he stayed silent too long, and my eyes were drawn to his.

He didn't look away. "He's an idiot." Nathan said the words as though he actually believed them. And his eyes showed the truth of it.

I'd forgotten what it was like to feel valued by another person. It was nice, even if I didn't quite understand what had prompted such an emotional reaction from Nathan. Still, it was a feeling I wasn't used to. I cleared my throat. "Did you ever want kids?"

He didn't answer right away. When he did, his response was carefully measured, as if he'd calculated how much to tell without giving anything away. "Yes, I did. Having children of my own wasn't in the cards for me, either."

"I'm sorry," I whispered. Behind his mask of forced cheerfulness, his eyes were hollow and tired, and the agony I saw in them caused my heart to ache.

As quickly as I'd glimpsed his inner sadness, it disappeared behind Nathan's granite wall of self-control. "Don't feel sorry for me.

I have Ziggy. I always did want a son."

It was the first time he'd acknowledged his true feelings for the kid. The look on Nathan's face told me he wasn't used to revealing so much. The angry panic that flashed across his features in the next instant told me exactly why. I recognized the expression because I'd seen it staring back at me from my own reflection too often to count.

Nathan truly believed that if he cared about something, it would eventually be taken from him.

I turned away. Unfortunately, I looked right into the vomit-splashed toilet bowl. "If I didn't know you were a vampire, I'd say you had an upper G.I. bleed. But I'm going to assume that was your dinner."

Nathan stood, still a bit wobbly, and rinsed his mouth under the tap before answering. "Tasted fine on the way down. Usually stale blood tastes like nail polish remover."

"You're familiar with nail polish remover? Did they have that in the thirties?" I dropped the toilet lid and flushed. I wasn't going to tell him about the antidote, or how I'd gotten it.

"Of course they did. And I had a girlfriend in the eighties. It was about twenty years ago, but you don't forget that chemical stench," he asserted, suddenly defensive.

"That still doesn't explain how you know what it tastes like. But I think you're right, you must have gotten sick from the blood.

Wait about half an hour before you drink anything else, to make sure you don't barf it all up again."

Nathan laughed. "Barf? Is that a technical term?" He eyed himself in the mirror, and before I knew what he was doing, whipped his T-shirt over his head. "What did she hit me with?"

"A spell, or something." I knew I should be examining him with a clinical eye, but it was hard to do that when he was so...half- naked. My fingers flexed, itching to touch the chiseled ridges of his chest. I cleared my throat and looked away. "I guess."

"Whatever it was, it didn't leave a mark." He turned his head and twisted his shoulders to examine his back in the mirror, and my mouth went dry as the muscles of his torso moved beneath his skin.

In the living room, the apartment door opened and slammed shut, followed by the heavy fall of combat boots against the floor.

"You guys aren't doing it, are you?"

Nathan gave an exasperated sigh. "Ziggy, manners!"

The young man appeared in the doorway, dark circles around his eyes. "I'm supposed to give you this." He handed Nathan a card with a police-shield emblem printed beside a name and phone number. "The cop said the books and merchandise are trashed. And they want the owner of the building to get in touch with them because they can't seem to locate him."

"The owner?" I looked from Ziggy to Nathan. "I guess I thought you owned the building."

"I do." Nathan slipped the card into his jeans pocket. "I'll call them later."

Ziggy let out a huge yawn. "I'm going to bed. I've got a big test tomorrow and I don't want to be involved in any other vampire shit today, got it?"

"Got it," Nathan replied with a smirk. "But I'm gonna need your help in the shop later tonight to find what we can salvage."

"Can do." Ziggy shot me a sharp and knowing look. "You feeling okay now, Nate?"

"Yeah, I must have grabbed a stale bag, gotten a little food poisoning."

His expression hard, Ziggy stared at me. "Yeah, that must be it. I mean, it couldn't have been anything else."

But he didn't mention the trip to Cyrus's place. I hoped he'd have the sense not to say anything. When I left, he'd believe I'd gone of my own accord. I would make him believe it.

Ziggy bade us good-night and retreated to his room. As soon as his door closed, loud rock music blasted away.

"When he gets moody like this, I just leave him alone." Nathan yawned and strolled into his bedroom. I followed him, not sure why. His upper-torso nakedness probably had something to do with it as he moved like an R-rated pied piper.

He opened his dresser and pulled out a T-shirt. Gray, like his eyes, I thought as I watched him pull it over his head. No. I didn't need to remember his eyes, or any other part of him for that matter.

Except for his beating heart. I could take some solace in the fact I'd added another saved life to my tally.

I tried not to think of the price that would cost me. "Nathan, who's Nolen Galbraith?"

He ran a hand through his hair, smoothing strands that had gotten mussed from the shirt. "That would be me. Actually, I should say that used to be me. Where did you hear that name?"

"It was on the fax from the Movement. And it's what Cyrus called you." I placed my hands on my hips. "He said he didn't sire you."

Giving me a crooked smile, he sat on the end of the bed. "Why all the questions?"

Because I just traded my life for yours. "You told me your name was Nathan Grant, and you told me Cyrus was your sire. Why did you lie?"

"I didn't lie." He reached into his back pocket and removed his wallet. "Look."

His driver's license, besides having a criminally unfair good picture, bore the name Nathan Grant.

"I have to change my identity every couple of decades, remember? I like to think I can pass for forty before I have to move again." He took his wallet back and tossed it on the dresser.

I shook my head in frustration. "But what about Cyrus? You said the same blood in my veins flows through yours. But he said he didn't sire you."

"He didn't. Our blood is connected because the same vampire who sired Cyrus sired me." Nathan cleared his throat. "I don't normally talk about it."

"Well, make an exception," I snapped, and instantly regretted it. "I'm sorry. I'm just really tired, and all of this still freaks me out.

Does it ever get any less weird?"

He smiled. "It hasn't for me, so far. Maybe you'll get lucky." He must have realized he'd made the wrong word choice at the same time I did because an awkward silence lingered between us as we both tried not to look at the bed.He stretched his arm behind his head and yawned to avoid eye contact. "Hey, about earlier tonight, when we-"

"Forget it," I said quickly. I knew I would. There was no reason to hang on to the memory when we'd be enemies this time tomorrow.

I thought I saw disappointment in his eyes, but he shook it off with a contrived laugh. "Yeah, that's probably for the best. We were just caught up in the moment and things got out of hand."

"Absolutely," I agreed. "It's a total nonissue."

"Well, then, I guess I'm going to go look over my insurance papers for the shop. Did you want to watch TV or something?"

"No, I'm actually pretty tired." I looked at the bed. "Do you want me to take the couch tonight?"

He pointed a finger at me. "Today, Carrie. Get on vampire time. But no, I'll be up for a while and I don't want to disturb you. We can work out better sleeping arrangements tomorrow."

"Tomorrow," I said, suddenly numb.

With a look of concern on his face, he reached out and gave my arm a squeeze. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. I'm just tired." It wasn't a lie. But when we said our good-nights and he left me alone in his bedroom, I couldn't fall asleep. Instead, I looked around the room for a pen and paper. On the floor, between the bed and the wall, I found a sketchbook with a drawing pencil tucked into the coiled binding. It would do.

I flipped open the cover and paused. An incredibly beautiful, almost photographic-looking drawing of a sleeping child took up the first page. In the margin, in distinctly masculine handwriting that sharply contrasted the skilled lines of the drawing, was written, Ziggy, age eleven.

Turning the pages, I found a succession of similar drawings. They were mostly of Ziggy at various stages of his teen years, sleeping. From what little I knew of Ziggy, I realized the only time he'd hold still long enough to be sketched would be while he was unconscious. The few portraits of Ziggy awake were accompanied by photos paper-clipped to them. I flipped to the last pages, hoping to find some blank sheets. The final drawing froze my blood in my veins.

It was like looking at a photograph of the night we'd first met. He'd obviously drawn it from memory, as the coat I'd worn ended at the hips, not the knees, and my hair had been up, not curling softly around my shoulders. But it was unmistakably me.

I was flattered, but I couldn't help but wonder what kind of freak spent time in moony daydreams about someone they'd known for less than two weeks.

But then again, what kind of freak trades their freedom for the life of someone they've known for less than two weeks?

Trembling, I pulled the page free from the binding and folded it small enough to fit into the back pocket of my jeans. Something to remember him by, I supposed. Then I tore out a blank piece and started writing.

The first letter I wrote was easier than I expected. My resignation from the hospital was simple, professional and, as it was handwritten in pencil on notebook paper, probably the last nail in the coffin of my medical career.

But it really wouldn't matter. Nathan was right. Eventually, people would notice I didn't age. Unlike Nathan, there was no way I'd ever pass for forty. Judging from how often I've been carded buying beer, I could barely pass for twenty-one. I'd have to redo college and medical school every ten years just to keep being a doctor. It would be like hell, only worse.

I'd slip that letter under the door of Dr. Fuller's office before I arrived at Cyrus's house tomorrow night.

I took out another sheet and began the more difficult farewell.Nathan, I'm not going to pretend we'll ever see each other again, at least not on friendly terms. I've decided that the best place for me is with my sire. Please know that while I wish you only the best, I understand you have a job to do for the Movement. I won't take it personally if you try to follow that assignment through, but be aware that I will fight you with my last breath. No one has the power to decide whether I live or die. If you ever felt the slightest friendship toward me, you'll forget I ever existed.

Carrie

Ten

Sunset

A s much as I tried to ignore what I was about to do, I couldn't quiet my mind enough to sleep. Instead, I consolidated my clothes into a shopping bag and waited, staring at Nathan's alarm clock like a death row inmate. Soon, my time would be up.

For a while, I listened to Nathan puttering around in the living room. Though he'd claimed to be set on an evening of reviewing insurance forms and serious concentration, all I heard was the popping of microwave popcorn and Led Zeppelin. He listened to Houses of the Holy twice before I heard the springs of the couch creak as he settled in to sleep.

Ziggy left at about eight o'clock. When I heard him return at noon, I opened the bedroom door and waited for him to notice that I was awake.

It didn't take him long. His stocky frame filled the doorway, and he toyed with the huge skull ring on his index finger to avoid looking at me. "So, my guess is you're leaving."

"Yes." I sat on the edge of the bed, which was currently experiencing the foreign pleasure of clean sheets. "I don't want to overstay my welcome."

"You made a deal with Cyrus." He didn't pose it as a question. The kid wasn't a fool.

"I'd appreciate it if you didn't tell Nathan about it. He doesn't need to know."

"And I'm going to lie to Nate because you've done what for me lately?" Ziggy demanded.

"I'm asking you not to tell him as a friend. I don't want him to get hurt."

"Why? Are you going to hurt him?" he asked as he turned to look into the living room, pulling a wooden stake from his back pocket. "Nate's my dad. He's taken care of me since I was nine years old. There's no reason not to kill you if you're threatening him."

"I'm not threatening him. I just don't want him coming after me. Cyrus would kill him."

Ziggy laughed. "Yeah, like you're not trying to save your ass the only way you know how. What the fuck do you want?"

I wanted to forget all this had ever happened and get some sleep. I wanted to wake up and help them salvage smoke-damaged dream catchers from the shop. I wanted anything but to go back to Cyrus's house. I'd spend an eternity in that house. But I just handed him my letter. "Give this to him after I've gotten a head start."