"They? Would that be his new boss?"

"I dunno; I guess. He works for a lotta different guys."

"You're good friends with Nick?"

She laughed, playing with a wisp of hair. "Not that good. Where can I get an application? I could fill it out... right now."

The girl has a natural aptitude for filling things out, he thought. "If Nick gets the job I'll have him pass one on to you.

I'm sure you'll suit. You can carpool in together."

She grinned. "Cowboy, you're crazy! I like that."

Not much point in searching Anton's place. The girl's watchful presence, though decorative, was inconvenient for any attempt at breaking and entering. He could adjust her memory to forget, but it wasn't worth the effort. He had the information he wanted. All he needed to do now was wait.

And find out where the hell Bubba Rob's was located.

He retreated back to New Karnak, hiding from the furnace blast of sun. Texas afternoons, with their all-day buildup of heat, were near-intolerable to the natives, much more so to a visitor from Toronto, and infinitely more so when he happened to be a vampire. Richard gladly shut himself in and stripped, soothing his flesh with a tepid shower. He ran the cold faucet only, but the climate was such that even the groundwater was warm. How people survived here prior to air conditioning was a mystery to him.

His face was very red and itched, always a sign of sun damage. Much more and he'd have come out in bloody blisters. He made an ice pack with a damp hand towel and pressed it to the worst spots, his cheeks, nose, and chin, then phoned Sam. The receptionist, recognizing his voice, put him straight through.

"It's me. How's Michael?" he asked.

"Sleeping again. He's in the back room with Helen watching."

"Any sign of bad guys?"

"No more than usual for the neighborhood. Things are slowing down. I thought I'd close up and get us out of here on time for a change."

"Have you decided where to stay?"

"Helen has room at her place. And before you object I'll follow her home and make sure no one follows either of us.

God, you've got me thinking like you, now."

"It's a good way to live longer."

The doctor's reply was muttered and not terribly edifying.

"Did you get Michael to eat anything?"

"Yes. He settled down a bit after you left, and Helen had some luck getting some fruit and peanut butter into him.

He drank some juice and water, so I didn't have to do a drip on him."

"That's a good sign, isn't it? His eating?"

"I'd say so. Give him some time, Richard. He won't recover from this for a while, no matter how much we want it."

After promising to call from Helen's, Sam rang off.

Sam was right about recovery taking time, but unaware of a treatment option Richard could offer that was outside of modern medicine.

Sabra would be able to reach the boy's mind... and heart. She of all people could touch Michael's damaged spirit and bring him real healing.

Where are you, my lady?

Richard knew she would be well aware of his pain and turmoil. As far away as she was in her Vancouver retreat, it would have lanced right through her, especially what had happened to him the night before. Her Sight would have disclosed the whole terrible ordeal to her by now. It was an awful Gift at times, yet Richard could almost wish for it himself. Perhaps he then could have somehow saved them...

No. He'd been down that road too many times before, and it always led to sorrow... or helpless rage. He was in the here and now and must deal with things as they were, not as they should be. Learning that aspect of life and fate and death had been his bitterest lesson.

To keep the past at bay, he flicked on the living room set and sought out CNN for distraction. He had a feeling that the Addison explosion might be of interest to them and was not disappointed. It was the top story on their national report, containing the same helicopter views of the ruins he'd seen earlier. They had more details, this time giving the name of the home's owner, Luis Marcelja. Amid ground views of the house, they'd incorporated a shot of the body bags being carried out.

Richard made himself watch. And think.

The investigators would connect Luis with his job and be by Arhyn-Hill soon. If they took prints from his office...

well, that would be difficult. Richard had wiped down everything he'd touched while there, marring Luis's by default.

They might still turn up some latent prints, then run them through the system and learn his real identity. If any of them were on the ball, they would know about brother Alejandro and have their prime suspect. They'd put an alert out for him, for all the good it would do.

Had he been smart enough to stay out of the country for this? Richard hoped so. He would have the field to himself, able to deliver hard justice without having to stumble over legitimate authorities. He'd have to go to Colombia and track Alejandro down there: difficult, but absolutely possible.

Of course, much depended on the information Nick Anton would provide.

Bubba Rob's Texas Nights was an upscale topless place, lots of lights in the parking lot, a huge sign with more lights, a marquee to announce headliners, and plenty of grim-looking muscle roaming the area. At nine-thirty the lot was full and likely to stay that way. Richard parked half a block down in an annex lot, surprised that he didn't have to pay for the privilege. He could have gotten valet service, but eschewed that in favor of simplicity and a low profile.

With the sun gone, he was free of the encumbrances of his drover's coat, gloves, and Stetson, but still felt the heat as he strode toward the club. It was as though the concrete had absorbed it during the day so as to vent throughout the muggy evening.

He'd dressed to blend: dark new jeans over his boots, a dark shirt, and bolo tie. Texas chic, though he had a sneaking suspicion he looked more like a Jersey tourist than a native. He got something of a confirmation of this as he passed a couple of young women hanging about the front of the parking annex. The dark-haired one flashed him a winning smile.

"Howdy, honey, you looking for some southern comfort?" she asked, her lazy drawl thick enough to cut.

Her blonde friend-so many blondes down here-smiled as well, waiting for an answer. Both were casually attired in tight, but not too revealing clothes and restrained makeup. The only obvious giveaway to their profession were their too-high heels and oversized handbags. Fort Worth hookers were less gaudy than their Dallas sisters.

"Perhaps later," he responded, and he meant it. The blood he had at home was fine for survival, but not nearly as good as taking it fresh from a vein.

"We might not be here later, honey. Maybe you should stick around before the good times slip away."

"I could say the same thing." He gave them one of his charmer smiles, no real promise implied, but sufficient to take any sting out of his refusal. "It'll have to be later, though, sorry."

"You just remember Gail," she said as he walked on. "Like a tornado, but with an i."

"I will." "And I'm Stormee, with two e's," added her friend, managing to drawl and sound breathless at the same time.

What interesting weather they have here, he thought. And, lord, but he loved their accents.

He reached the club's entry without additional distracting delays, paid the cover, and went in to an assault of lurid noise, light, and movement. A deep base drumbeat of recorded music provided a background for the current dancer on stage-yet another blonde-her hair swinging free as she went through her routine. He spared her a scant second of attention, intent on getting his bearings first.

The layout of the place was fairly standard, but large. A long bar ran along the length of one wall, open booths facing the center of the room took up another. The third wall accommodated the stage area and runway, the fourth had doors leading to the rest rooms and business offices. The floor, crowded with filled tables, had upper and lower levels so customers could enjoy a clear view of the performers. Hanging from the ceiling was a Southwest variation of a mirror- encrusted disco ball, this one shaped like a saddle. Vari-colored spotlights shot sparks off it as it slowly revolved. Red and black were the theme colors throughout, accented with streamers of silver tinsel and ribbons meant to conceal the sound system and other hardware.

Damned little else was being concealed here.

Men pressed close to the stage, eyes upturned to a dancing fantasy of paradise. The dancer had several bills tucked into her G-string and readily drifted over to any man looking to add to her collection. If she liked him, he might be rewarded in turn with a brushing kiss, a smile, and some special dance gyrations just for his benefit. The men here weren't allowed to touch back, though, which made this club rather tame compared to other such establishments Richard had seen over the centuries. The intent was unchanged through time, however, for here was the purest sort of relationship. It lasted exactly as long as the man had money. Hopefully, both parties considered the trade of feminine attention for cash to be a fair and balanced exchange. If not, then that was for the bouncers to sort out.

Richard found a place at the bar, paid too much for a beer he would never drink, and began a careful survey of the male employees. Nick Anton, from the statistics in his description, would be on the large side. His file photo showed a full-faced man with jet black hair, a beard, and dead eyes. No shortage of that type working here.

When a small table opened up, he took it, having another ploy in mind. Girls circulated over the floor, some doing lap dances, others sitting to chat with the customers, the unspoken objective being to get them to buy more drinks.

Richard ended up with a lady who seemed intent on doing both.

She was a slender, well-muscled redhead, her hair falling straight to her waist. Her lithe body was clad in a spectacular, red belly dancer's costume trimmed with gold fringe, jangling coins, and bells. Wisps of transparent red fabric accented rather than hid her figure.

"I'm Vashti of the Flaming Tresses," she said, by way of introduction.

"You are indeed." Had she claimed to be the Empress of Russia he'd have wholeheartedly agreed with her.

"Would you like me to dance for you, or would you prefer another drink?"

"Both would be delightful," he said with a nod of encouragement.

She shot him a wicked smile and caught the beat of the speaker music with her hips. They seemed to function quite separately from her torso. Not just a girl in a costume, she knew her art and lavished a full minute of it on him, more than enough to leave him dry in the mouth and craving more. Men at the other tables looked on, grinning, her presence enough to take attention away from the D-cup on the runway.

Richard obligingly tipped her with a large enough bill to compel her to linger for that drink. She ordered an iced tea. Overpriced, of course. He stuck with his untouched beer.

"You're very good," he said.

"Thank you."

"You've too much talent for this place."

She shrugged. "Maybe, but the Renaissance Faires don't pay as well. The local ones are through for the season anyway."

"You usually perform at those?"

"Sometimes, but it gets so hot, and I burn easily." She pushed away a lock of russet hair, tilting her head so as to better expose her milk-white neck with its dusting of freckles. "See?" "Indeed." God, but it was almost as though she knew exactly what to do to arouse him.

"Yes, a nice dark club is the best place for me." She fastened her gaze on him, oddly familiar in its force. "You new in town?"

"Not really. Trying to find someone who works here."

"Anyone I know?"

"One of the bouncers, Nick Anton. He's a big fellow."

"They usually are. Yeah, we got a couple of Nicks here."

"This one has black hair, maybe a beard."

She pulled back, eyes narrowing. "You a cop?"

He laughed. "No. Just a businessman."

"Then maybe you should talk to the manager."

His turn to fasten his gaze on her. "I prefer your company. Is Nick here tonight?"

Vashti caught her breath, rocking back slightly. "Wha..."

He repeated the question, stepping up the pressure.

"I... I..." She shook her head sharply, fighting it. "Hey, who the hell are you?"

That was unexpected. She should have been under by now. Instead she glared right back at him, eyes blazing and guarded. He found he could not get through to her again. Not drunk, could she be on drugs? They would make her resistant to- "Listen, I don't want any trouble from you," she stated, her voice low. An ordinary man wouldn't have been able to hear her above the blast of music. "Let's just be a couple of ships passing in the night and leave it at that-no collisions. No complications. Okay?"

So that was it. "Yes, absolutely. I apologize for the presumption."

She gave him a long look, apparently sizing him up. "Accepted."

"Thank you."

It was enough to mollify her. "It's an easy enough mistake to make. Doing that stuff with them is one thing, but not your own kind. If it makes you feel better, I didn't know about you either."

He grinned. Encounters with other vampires were rare. He wondered what breed she might be. Probably not of his blood, else he might have sensed a kinship. "You were trying for me?"

"Sure, why not? Big healthy guy like you could spare a bit of the fresh for little old me."

Feeling flattered, he raised his undrunk beer. "To might-have-beens?"

She smirked and tapped her undrunk tea glass against his mug. They then set both containers back on the table.

"You weren't trying for me, though, were you?" she asked.

"Regrettably, no. I really am looking for Nick Anton. Is he here?"

"Why do you want him?"

"It's about a job."

"What kind of job?"

"You said you wanted to avoid collisions."

She snorted. "Yeah, right. He's here, but in the private party room in the back. They won't let you in."