The Secrets of Katie Zurin

The Secrets of Katie Zurin copyright 2004 by Lisa J. Binkley ISBN 1−932693−19−X Published by Abintra Press

Spring 2003 The heavy oak door stood wide open, the golden light from within pouring out unheeded. How typical of her to be unconcerned of the cold damp and what or who may wander in from such a bleak night. Standing just outside the arc of loosened brightness, Michael felt invisible. Through the portal, he could catch fleeting glimpses of a shadow figure, pacing and pausing. Occasional syllables of conversation reached him, fading and returning as she changed directions in her course. The phone hung from her hand, the other clutching the receiver to her ear. Always techno−stupid −− hadn't she ever heard of caller ID? Or sat−phones? Well, Kate's indifference to such things had enabled him to find her tonight. What did the open door signify? Did she know he would come? The cardboard box dug into his arm. The rain had softened the edges, the paper collapsing, disintegrating, losing form and function. The bottom would fall out soon. He felt a shifting and adjusted his grip. He considered the seemingly unconnected items and memorabilia inside. It had arrived this afternoon, his mother's gift of his childhood treasures and youthful achievements. He had removed them and, examining each, wondered why he had kept them so long. Sitting with the odd collection around him, a pattern had formed. Memories long banished had returned and, like bubbles blown through a straw into a milkshake, rose to the surface with almost painful slowness, trapped beneath the filmy layer of milky time, the final pop taking far longer to materialize than reasonably expected. Memories that begged the question; how had he forgotten? Katie was present in every one. Digging out her number from a dog−eared card in his wallet and calling her answering service, Michael had been hard pressed to form a coherent sentence. The polite voice coolly informed him she would pass the message on, but Miss Zurin had been traveling abroad and an immediate response could not be guaranteed. But Katie's call came not ten minutes later. "What is it, Michael?" she asked −− always Michael, never Mike, or Mick or any other diminutive. "My service said you called, something important." "I need you," he'd said. "I'll come as soon as I can," she agreed and had hung up. Only then had he registered the number showing on his caller ID box. A local number and a vaguely familiar name? He used his laptop to cross−reference the name, Anna Runiz, not even unlisted, and find the address. Local? Katie was here, not a mile away. But her service said Europe? As she no doubt had instructed them to do. Hiding? From him? In his own backyard. Gathering the odds and ends into the box, he had driven as if demon−possessed, eager to confront her. A growing reluctance percolated up through his urgency. Parking his Toyota, he walked the final blocks to stand outside the hillside home in the rain −− in the darkness. Waiting for God knew what. A sign? Earlier she had come to the door and opened it. She stood awhile on the deep porch, staring out over the valley. She could probably see his apartment from here, and the lab. Keeping an eye on him. Michael hadn't come here to stand a vigil, but the roiling in his stomach and the occasional trembling in his knees nailed him to the spot. Close enough to see her and hear her speaking. To whom? The conversation had gone on and on; it had to be Val. Thinking of Val intensified the shivering. But if that asshole were distant enough to settle with a phone call, he was too far to come in person, at least tonight. Michael stepped onto the first step; the remainder towered before him. From this vantage a large wedge of the living room was visible through the mirrored foyer. Katie walked into his line of sight. "I don't know what I'll say, yet. Maybe I'll just let him ask his questions. Why borrow trouble?" Katie turned, and their eyes met, momentarily. "He's here," she said into the phone. Val, it had to be him, asked a question. Michael climbed to the porch, weary. Wary. "I think it will be all right. I'll call you. Yes, I love you too." Katie set down the phone and replaced the 1

receiver. "Come in, Michael," she invited. Her hair had been cut to chin length, carelessly tucked behind her ears. Light brown, now, and streaked with silvery highlights. Her chocolate brown eyes, flecked with gold, regarded him calmly through funky wire−framed glasses. Wearing snug brown jeans and a loose necked short beige sweater; a dancer's body, lithe and firm. God, she looked good. Hadn't she always? A trickle of sweat or rain ran down his spine. He suddenly identified the creeping emotion that had kept him hiding in the darkness of the pines. She frightened him. She laughed, a breath of wind through chimes. "I haven't harmed you in all these years. Why would I start now?" she asked. He shivered harder at her comment. "Come in, you're chilled." She left his field of vision. He could hear water running and the clank of metal. Making tea or hot chocolate, her cure for anything that ailed a soul. "Buck up!" he whispered to himself. Having identified the unease within, he firmly restrained it. "Wuss." Stepping through the door felt like time travel. The furnishings were comfortable yet spare. The colors of nature dominated the room −− sand and green, brown and yellow. Everything felt entirely unfamiliar, but completely vintage Katie. The few ornaments and accessories, utterly right, standing on glass and oak shelving, lighted from above and featured as if works of art. Probably were, Michael admitted ruefully. Fabric cushions and soft chenille throws hinted at cozy evenings. Sure enough −− the nights he had longed for her company she had been here, curled up before the stone and tile fireplace, just minutes apart, not half a world away with her far−flung friends or family. He stood dripping in the center of the warm room, musing on his surroundings as tiny pricks of needle sharp memories poked holes through the tight weave of thought. "Go shower, I'll bring you cocoa." She pointed at the spiral staircase. "At the top of the stairs and to your right. Val's clothes are in the closet dresser. Help yourself." Mutely he complied. His cross−trainers, full of rainwater, squished on each riser. Michael set his drooping and somehow pitiful box on the tile floor. Everything gleamed, almost an affront to the murky coiling angst gnashing and chomping in his guts. Nausea overcame him. Hanging over the toilet bowl, a new flash of remembrance burst through, college memories, of long conversations and a final vicious argument. Memories that contradicted everything she had let him assume, led him to believe. Lies and secrets. Toothpaste lay in the second drawer, with an unopened toothbrush beside it. Familiar Katie−istics. Brushing his teeth felt far too mundane for the recurring disorientation. In the shower, rinsing away the wretched post−sick feeling with a fresh bar of a softly scented soap, spicy, a Val−like scent. The memory flash the fragrance inspired caused him another bout of vomiting. Drying himself on a thick warm towel, large enough to engulf two. More bits and pieces emerged of sharing such a towel. The silky smoothness of her damp body; how had he forgotten that? The bathroom mirror reflected a face pale with shock, which the hot spray of the powerful showerhead hadn't fully erased. More questions, he thought, and looked toward the box. Gone. She had come in while he showered and taken it. Why? Did she wish to steal back the physical evidence of her betrayals? His clothes missing too, but there a folded pile of a stranger's apparel lay just inside the door −− sweats, too loose and too long, and a soft turtleneck. Wearing Val's clothes. Damn. Just clothing, no reason for feeling defiled. Not like Paris. Oh God! Paris? When would he stop tripping over these sneaking memory fragments? He threw open the door. Katie stood there, holding a tray. "You're hyperventilating Michael. Control it. Slowly in −− and out." She beckoned with her head. "Come on, we'll talk in here." She pushed open the next door with her foot. Bare feet, he noticed the flash of pale polish on the toenails. The only sexy feet he'd ever seen, as delicate and finely shaped as her hands. Nimble feet. The candlelit room had a glass wall. Ceiling to floor windows overlooked the twinkling town. Flashes of red, amber and white blurring beyond in the rain swept night. Michael could see the balcony of his apartment and the back parking lot of the lab. A telescope stood next to a high chair, a sentinel testifying to another secret hobby. He could imagine her perched there, watching him. Shiver. How long? A sitting room, but he could see through an open door to the adjoining bedroom. Erotic visions jolted 2

him, stretching like a hall of mirrors. Two mugs, a Thermos pot of hot chocolate and a bottle of Jack sat on the low table. Trickling. A recollection wavered of a Pennsylvania blizzard. His memorabilia had been dried − the wastebasket overflowed with paper towels − and laid out in a design. A timeline, he realized. She knew everything. Remembered everything that he had forgotten. Kate was the key, the focal point of all the shining ray−like memories. The clarity of every other portion of his life, Liz and the kids, school and research, even most his childhood contrasted sharply with the soft−focus his times with Kate had. She had always been there waiting for... What? Him, or the breakthrough he'd promised when she found funding for the lab. He could barely remember how the partnership had come about, less than four years ago. So Kate was the forget factor, not the vagaries of time. She sat in one of the wide cushion covered chairs and tucked her feet under a pillow. An expectant look, a sidelong glance from averted eyes. The Katie−look. She poured a mug for him, added a shot of whiskey and motioned to the other chair. The mug warmed his hands. "So what do you need, Michael? What do you expect me to do about it?" She gazed out the window, tranquil and relaxed, clearly expecting him to retrieve his shredded composure in the stillness. He sat, sipping the potion. He could feel the alcohol burn in his stomach. Where to begin, how to sort out the conflicting memories? A question popped into his head. One too foolish to ask, she would laugh in his face. "A long time. You wanted to forget but I never will." Another quick bubble popped, she could read his mind. Had been able to as long as they had been friends. He felt her eyes back on him and her calmness stroking his fear with a soft hand. Another of her gifts? Could she not only to divine his thoughts but also alter his emotions? The idea felt right, as if it were another thing he had learned long ago and forgotten. "I wanted to forget? Why would I?" She sighed. "Because there are things you simply refuse to accept." "About what?" "About me and my family. Also about yourself, the image you have of the world and your place in it." "So I forgot." "The medical term is repressed, I think. Humans have all sorts of mechanisms to relieve themselves of burdensome or traumatic memories. You can also lie to yourselves, pretending so well that even you believe." "Traumatic memories?" he scoffed. "I know you've always been my friend. How could your friendship be traumatic?" "We haven't had a platonic relationship, Michael." "I would never forget..." The earlier flashes returned to mock him. "Forget sex with me? But you have. You have those memories locked away as tightly as the others. I can see it in the cubicle in your mind labeled Katie, drawer after drawer, chained and bolted. Each marked with the word I could say to open the niche and set free the prisoner." "So say the words." "I did last time and feared for your sanity. You have to remember why you forgot, to accept the memories." "Last time?" "We've had this general discussion before." "When?" "Does it matter?" Kate looked angry, a fleeting flash of temper, then a resigned sigh. "College, after your divorce, in Amsterdam." "We were in Amsterdam together?" "I took you to Holland." "I gave a seminar on my gene mapping program in Amsterdam." She shook her head and tossed a brochure into his lap. "Your conference was held in Baltimore, Michael. You went to Europe with me. Remember Andie?" "Andie?" A vague picture formed of a gorgeous girl, beautiful but strange −− and Val's overprotective attitude. He looked closely at the brochure she had tossed into his lap. The generic pamphlet showed the logo 3

of his professional society and a small picture of a Baltimore hotel. On the second page he found his own name and his topic of discussion. So the conference had been in America, not the Netherlands. "Why were you in Baltimore?" Katie's lips curled in a small self−deprecating smile. A tiny shake of her head indicated her unwillingness to answer. His divorce had been final only weeks before the seminar. Had she come to console him? "Were you looking for me?" "Yes." She unfolded herself from the chair and wandered to the window, sipping her chocolate. The rain had stopped, leaving the night sky in a myriad of stars. Michael could see only an outline of her, punctuated by pinpoints of the starlight caught in the rain−speckled glass. "Why?" For a long moment she didn't answer, keeping her secrets from him. "For a brilliant person you are remarkably naive," Kate snorted. "None is so blind as he who will not see." Michael considered her words. Though the specifics had escaped, he knew she had always been the person he counted upon to come through during the difficult periods in his life. He joined her by the window. She glanced up at his face, a measuring judgmental regard. A suspicious look, one of deep pain and distrust. When had he hurt her? How had he gained her distrust? Was it too late to make amends? "Until the last breath you take, it will never be too late," she murmured. She sighed and leaned against him. Her feverish warmth took him aback, until he remembered she'd always felt this way. Better for cuddling, the words of a past conversation echoed. "Did you hope for us to be more than friends again?" Her hair smelled of vanilla cream, a sense of continuity and stability filled him −− Kate's signature scent, as much a part of her as grace and humor. She laughed and pulled away. "Oh, Michael! What a self−deluding piece of work you are. We have always been 'more than friends'. This is the longest we've been alone together and managed to keep our clothing intact." She returned to her seat, poured a shot of the whiskey in her mug and tossed it back. She stared at the mug with an air of dissatisfaction. "Damnation, I wish I could find forgetfulness in this stuff. You have no idea how lucky you are; able to edit your past to suit your purpose." Kate laughed, a bitter humorless bark. "I would trade addiction for memory loss, any day." She poured a second shot. "Getting shitfaced isn't going to change anything." The abrupt change in her mood confused him. She acted annoyed, as if his amnesia of their moments together had been a voluntary affliction. "I want to remember. Why won't you help?" Kate leaned back in her chair, stretching. "I'm tired of it. Each time I rejoice, hoping beyond reasonable hope you are sincere." "I am sincere. Look, Kate. I adore you. Have I said that before? I hate not remembering us." "Do you?" she asked. "Yet each time you let me go, again. And forget. But I, lacking the talent, must replay these moments time and again, evaluating and second−guessing where I went wrong. What if I had said this first, or withheld that until last. If I had prepared better, or if I had let Val explain." "Val? I don't want anything to do with him." She glared at him. "How well you lie to yourself." "Lie? I despise him. He's an asshole. I do remember that." She shook her head. "Val is charming, and caring, and kind." Michael sneered, "He's your brother. What else would you think?" "Okay, you hate him." She leaned forward. "Why? One good reason." Michael stared out the window, looking for the scraps of memory that painted such a clear dislike for Kate's twin. "I think he's a pedophile and a homosexual." She snickered. "Pedophile, no." A memory flashed into his head, too fast for him to grasp. Was there something to do with a young cousin? "Your cousin?" he began. "Miranda and no, you misunderstood the circumstances until later." "If you say so," Michael said, disbelievingly. "He still creeps me out. Not PC of me, I know." 4

"He is no more homosexual than you are." A dismissive gesture of her hands punctuated her words. "Right!" Michael scoffed. But something else nagged him. "I think..." "What do you think?" she asked, suddenly attentive. A misty remnant of a memory flitted maddeningly at the limits of his perception. A dark street, blinding pain, and a gunshot. "I think he killed somebody." Remembering more, Val helping him to his feet, and almost dragging him out of the alley. Hissing at him to walk and to pull himself together. Remembered the overwhelming lethargy of shock and stammering questions to be shushed by his companion. "He shot a man. Val's a murderer." "And you remember nothing else?" "Should I?" Katie turned her face away. Disappointed, he thought. What else had happened? She obviously considered the revelation only part of the whole story. He examined the memorabilia again, something else gnawing at him. His eyes flickered over stubs from planetarium tickets and a certificate awarding him his first research grant. An envelope contained an invitation to join Dr. Westphal's staff at Caltech and his copy of the Ruiz Corporation's standard contract for funding privately held businesses. Another pattern reared its head, formed by these documents, impossible to ignore. His hands began to shake; his vision grew gray and misty at the edges. Cold shivering, yet beads of sweat dripped from his upper lip. His chest crushed in the tight grip of a particularly cruel giant fist. Katie appeared at his side, helping him sit down in the gloriously real chair, fetching clear water to sip. A soft cloth on his forehead and her warm hands on his frigid fingers, loving ministrations from a woman he had known so long, but understood so poorly. 'Help me!' he thought, his mouth capable of nothing more than a series of monotone moans. Heart attack, stroke? Kate moved into his field of vision. "You're not dying. You're having a panic attack. Do you want my help?" 'Yes!' Oh, yes. The pain in his chest threatened his breathing. She kissed him, a soft point on which to focus. The contact like the waving of a matador's cape, distracting the bull −− his fear. Her tongue sought his and the fear became entangled in the fabric. Did resuscitation feel like this to a drowning victim? His compliance rocketed to participation and exploded to aggression. What his mind had forgotten the fibers of his body remembered with great accuracy. How to kiss her, how to hold her, how to find the places where his touch would please her best. The touch of her mind as compelling as her hands. The novel yet wholly familiar shape of her breasts and rump. Like a teenager on the beach, a summer love story ending in a glorious finale under Labor Day fireworks. Lips rarely parting, yet somehow everything lay within his grasp. Skin on skin, inciting wonderful, invited, gentle violence. His heart still pounded, but now with passion's strong accustomed rhythm in place of the fibrillation of fear. Happening too soon, the indescribable power of orgasm. It had been far too long. The gradual return of awareness, followed by a wave of utter relaxation and calm acceptance, the help Katie promised. Was there incompleteness, a neglect of one important aspect of their lovemaking? He missed it, though he could not name it. She withdrew from his grasp, her reluctance as deep as his to call an end. He watched her leave through half−opened eyes and heard water running. He felt not drowsy but calm, a side effect of her kisses? Her clothes lay strewn in the haste of his fervor. A hard object dug into his thigh. Her glasses bent and cracked, lost at some point barely recalled. A light caress through his hair announced her return. He held up her glasses. "You don't really need these do you?" he asked, surprised by the calm control his voice held. "Just a disguise, to make you look older." She nodded, her eyes gleaming with a feral glow. "And to camouflage my eyes in the dark. Contacts work better, but I've never gotten used to them." His heart tried to skip, but settled quickly. "Making love with you, pheromones? A sedative? To make me forget?" "The venom in my saliva sedates you, when we kiss." A ghost of a shy smile flickered across her face. 5

"Making love is just making love. Medicinal in its own right, but not because of me." "No, it's special because of you," he claimed, "I do love you. Whatever else is also true, please believe me." Of all his missing memories, not remembering falling in love with her distressed him the most. He did love her and had forever. The emotion felt true and comfortable, unlike the terror engendered by the items from the box. She shrugged into a light cotton robe. Without touching it, he knew the texture would be fine and soft. No fabric stiff, starched or rough had ever abused Kate's skin. Silk, suede, brushed cotton, and cashmere were acceptable. Flannel or satin sheets, chenille blankets and down pillows covering her bed. A creature of comfort but, somewhere in his mind, he considered Kate a diligent worker and a tough cookie. Such contrary aspects had to be born of long acquaintance. He knew her, far better than he remembered. The pieces of disjointed knowledge were intimate, far beyond the reckoning of the level of friendship of which he had convinced himself. Michael forced his attention back to the documents. Why had the sight of those particular objects panicked him? Her glasses somehow jarred him towards a forbidden thought. Suddenly the mists parted, and a flash of his terror sprang into the light. He gathered several of the documents, considering. Her expectant attitude annoyed him. If she could sense his question, why did she wait until he could frame it with words? The contract, the grant, the invitation; had Kate instigated them all? His first grant application had been returned, with a request to consider another line of research. Steering him from his chosen area into the development of software applications for genetic studies. How had he met Dr. Westphal? Why would such an eminent researcher, with the entire country of grad students to winnow, choose an assistant from a backwater university like Placid State? Fast forward. The Ruiz group had offered funding soon after New−Mechanics had bought out his software company. Coincidence or collusion? "How long have you been fucking with my life?" the question tore from his throat. If she could read his mind, his anger should burn her in its fierce heat. "What gave you the right?" She faced his anger without flinching. "You were ten when we met. I didn't really start fucking with your life until you were old enough to give me permission." "Permission?" "More or less. You may not have realized my intent, but you voiced approval on a related rhetorical issue." The wind sucked from his sails as he vaguely recalled a conversation about informed consent. "Philosophical discussions are not permission." Kate sighed. "What in hell was I supposed to say? Oh, by the way, Michael, I'm planning on helping you become a premier expert in computer applications to the human genome mapping research which won't happen for twenty years?" She laughed. "You already thought me unstable, had already rejected certain things about me. You found it easier to believe in my madness than in my possible sanity. You'd rather I'd been a liar or a lunatic than the things you had discovered me to be." "Which is?" He pounced on her words. Instead of answering, she snatched up a Polaroid and tossed it in his face. "You just look −− really look," she said, suddenly hostile. The faded photo showed him with his arms around a young woman. Laughing together, caught in time. The girl's tousled hair, her hand inside his shirt, head tilted back, lips parted. Looking freshly kissed. He could feel her skin on his, the silky texture of her hair against his arm. A slice of memory surfaced. Katie, in short dark hair, her eyes and face not a moment different. Her lips in the picture, a red he could barely remember, but had been unable to forget completely. The color when worn as lipstick, by any woman, caused instant arousal, a surprising and occasionally embarrassing development. He raised his gaze to the Kate before him. Not merely well preserved, not a good bone structure and competent care. Unchanged. The bone cold trembling in his knees began again. "Are you immortal?" he asked in a whisper. "I'll live 'til I die, just like you," she answered. "But for a long time?" 6

She shrugged. "Potentially. Accidents happen." An important piece dropped into his lap. "You are immune to human illness and disease. No cavities, no colds, no cancer." He recalled something else. "You don't get drunk or high, none of our vices effect you." He pointed to the whiskey. "Just for show?" She nodded, the glow of her eyes unimpeded by glasses or her lashes. The luminescence, so like a cat's, inspired a question. "You see in the dark?" She shrugged, like a dance movement, graceful and eloquent. "You always ask such irrelevant questions." "You want a relevant one?" he said, bitterness slicing through his guts with a serrated blade. "Why me? What possessed you to choose me?" He picked up the bottle and took a gulp. "Did I look gullible? Or just easily manipulated?" She shook her head and averted her face. A cloak of black−iced rage rose from some dark recess of his soul. Popping out of his chair, he reached out and grabbed her chin, forcing her eyes to meet his. "Damn it, tell me." Moments later, astounded by the speed of her reaction, he rubbed his benumbed wrist, wondering if her defensive blow had broken it. She crouched near the door, where she had fled afterwards. The rhythm of her breathing suggested a nearness to tears. "God, Katie. I'm sorry." Gradually she regained her full height, relaxing slowly with controlled breathing. "Never again, Michael. Next time you touch me in anger it won't be your wrist I break." "It won't happen again," he promised. "Is it broken?" The pain had grown sharper as the numbness had receded. "Let's have a look." She opened the door and, gesturing for him to follow, returned to the guest bathroom. Retreating to more neutral ground he supposed, or indicating her willingness to begin again. Under the bright lighting of the mirrored room she examined his wrist, slowly manipulating it and listening carefully. "What do you hear in there?" he asked, amused in spite of the discomfort. "No grinding, no popping, and no unusual clicks. Not broken, probably," she answered seriously. "Sprained. I must have restrained my punch at the last second. Lucky you." A hint of bitterness crept into her voice. "I'm glad it's not broken, thank you." "I meant to break it." "Why? Did I frighten you that much?" She didn't answer until she finished wrapping an Ace bandage around his hand and wrist. "No, I can defend myself." She examined his fingers, making sure the bandage hadn't restricted circulation. With his free hand he caressed her hair, saddened when she stiffened under his touch. "Why did you want to hurt me?" She stood abruptly. "To see if I could, Michael, and I can't." He waited, sensing more explanation to follow. "If I can intentionally harm you, then there is some hope for me to be free of you. I may stop caring whether you are happy, lonely, or in pain. Find a happiness without you." "Free of me?" "Yes, free. You asked why I chose you? You are not the only individual I have mentored, and there are others who sought our help. Most remain completely oblivious to my nature." She splashed water onto her face and dried it on his discarded towel. "Oh, it smells like you." Shoulders slumped, head bowed, she looked defeated. Finally she turned to him. "I despise myself for it, I fought against it. But nature will out. I love you." "That's bad?" He thought it a pretty wonderful thing. He stood, intending to embrace her. Her eyes, as hard as brass, forbade him. "We pair bond, my kind. I got you. Imagine, Michael. I will love you until you die and longer. The short span of years granted for us to share I've spent pretending to be someone else. All I've ever wanted is to mean as much to you as you do to me." 7

"You do." She snorted. "Yes, for now. Until you remember everything and all the ramifications. Then you fear me, as you did earlier. Not as a child fears the dark unknown, but as a man fears with the full knowledge of his cowardice. Because beneath your complex and maddeningly logical mind with its tricks of binary smoke and digital mirrors, you are a hypocritical coward." She practically whispered her final accusation, but some feature of the room reverberated her judgment like the echo in a cavern. Stung, Michael met her eyes in the mirror. "Maybe this is why I forget! Your accusations and condemnation allow me no room for choice or self−determination. Your way or the highway. Is there no middle ground?" He felt some satisfaction at the uncertainty his words caused. "Is it my abject slavery you want? Or are you hoping for a companion?" The doubt deepened in the color of her eyes. "Is it my cowardice which separates us? Or is it your need for my complete approval? I can disagree with you but still want to be near you. Must I be entirely submersed in your life?" "Your memories are dangerous." "What? Who'd believe me? Where's my proof?" "Even a hint or rumor could draw attention and close scrutiny would develop enough proof." He thought a moment, admiring the tone and hue of her flawless skin. "So if I can't follow your script for a lived−happily−ever−after ending, I'm sentenced to an amnesiac existence in the half−twilight of your shadow?" She buried her face in the towel, inhaling deeply to finally exhale with a mournful sigh. The tiny hairs at the base of her neck caught his attention. Brushing with his fingers, he made them stand on end. A shiver passed through her. "There are worse alternatives," she whispered. "Like what?" he said with a laugh. "Killing me?" Her grim expression ended his amusement. A tiny grain of memory took shape and expanded. "That's what Val does. Isn't it?" She flung the towel down and stalked away. He heard her light footsteps on the stairs. He followed warily, uncertain of his welcome. He found her in the spacious kitchen, pulling two plates from the oven. She glanced up at him. "Hungry?" As if to answer his stomach growled loudly. She laughed, face flushed, perhaps from the heat of the oven. "Grab a bottle of water for me and whatever you find for yourself." She tilted her head toward the refrigerator and carried the plates to the breakfast nook at the back of the kitchen. Michael opened the door, found a bottle of spring water and a bottle of beer. She had uncovered the plates and stood stirring a cup of dressing for the salads. Unable to resist, he kissed the side of her bowed neck. She cringed then leaned into him. Her hair hid her face, but he wondered what he'd see if he drew it back. A tender smile or bitter tears? She turned away further. "I forgot the pepper mill," she murmured. "I'll get it," he said, giving her a moment to herself. The dinner tasted remarkably good, even though re−warmed. "When did you learn to cook?" he asked. "During your orthopedic period." He laughed, remembering the years in which one of the other of his kids had been in casts or splints. Legs, arms, wrists and ankles had been victims of overzealous participation in activities that usually were considered non−contact sports. Kyle had broken a leg in soccer, an arm in basketball and had shattered his collarbone while bicycling. Kim, true to form, had bested him. She broke a wrist in ballet, an ankle in gymnastics and, on one memorable occasion, a rib and her elbow while diving into a pool. She had been watching him, even then. "You seemed happy and settled. I left you alone and four years later you and Liz separated. What happened?" she asked sadly. "I don't know. The kids were glue, I guess. Once they had lives of their own, the stick wore off." He shook his head. "And fight! God. You didn't know her, Liz has a temper." "I met her several times. She was always a gracious winner." "Winner?" "Yes." 8

"She won?" "You married her. You only fucked me." "Oh." She left the table and stood looking at one of the prints in the doorway to the living room. "How'd that Theta Chi saying go? Use 'em, abuse 'em, and lose 'em?" "Don't be ugly. I never treated you that way." She glared at him shortly, and then shrugged. "How would you know? You don't remember one way or t'other." "Everything I do remember says otherwise." She relented, rubbing her face tiredly. "Whatever." "Why don't you just tell me why you're mad?" he said. "Is this more about me remembering, or me not remembering?" "I don't know. I can't do this again." "Do what?" She wandered back to the table. "I die, waiting for you." A tear slid from her eye, pausing at her cheekbone like some exotic face jewel. "Every new incident is just the beginning of another end." She smiled ruefully. "Come on, Michael. Let's go to bed." "After all that? I've never felt less like it," he said. "No one said anything about sex, though I'm not ruling out the possibility." She reached across the table and patted his hand. "Sleep, then we'll talk again, or not." Being curled around her, like a second skin, felt as familiar as the rest. He had always enjoyed cuddling and had regretted when the kids had outgrown the desire. He remembered a long night when Kim had been nine, already a bit uncomfortable with physical displays of affection toward her parents. She had been feverish and couldn't lie down for coughing. He'd spent the night in the recliner with her toasty body as a blanket. Awaking stiff, but rewarded by the moment of quiet in which he had been free to watch his daughter sleeping normally with no fever, no painful hack. The lashes of her closed eyes laid against her peachy skin, the wavy tendrils of her penny−bright hair falling in twisted designs on her favorite lilac nightgown. Her hands, loosely fisted, rested beneath her chin against his chest. The solid but delicate weight of her seemed comforting and he had kissed the top of her tousled head. Her hazel eyes had flown open, fluttering like startled butterflies, until caught by his. A minute smile accompanied her languorous stretching. "Morning, daddy." "Hiya, babe." She slid from his lap with a child's complete obviousness of knee and elbow placement, unconcerned with the level of sacrifice he'd needed to not grumble about stiffened joints and muscles. Just before she disappeared into the bathroom, she had turned back, her face peeking around the corner. "I'm all better, Dad. Thanks." He remembered the sadness her statement had aroused. The short sentence had all the awareness of adulthood and all the acceptance of childhood. In some ways Katie reminded him of that moment with Kim. Awareness and acceptance, wasn't that Kate's way? "So Katie, is this when I begin to forget?" he whispered, thinking her asleep. She nestled further into his cuddle. "Do you want to?" Did he want to forget? How could he turn from this mystery? Like a favorite book read first in the distant past, now almost fresh in this incarnation. Some chapters read better than others, some would displease, yet others that may cause him to reject the story. Could he delve into this with the mixture of awareness and acceptance of a youth? Maybe it would require suspending credulity and judgment and allowing wonder and marvel to replace them. "Remember or forget, Michael?" she asked again, nuzzling the tender skin on the inside of his elbow. He 9

could feel the soft dampness of her tongue, darting between her lips. "Remember, of course," he murmured distractedly. Her kisses were stirring him, as she had intended, no doubt. The robe presented no barrier, only serving as wrapping for an especially desired gift. His explorations were interrupted by the sharp nip of brief pain in his arm as her teeth broke his skin. A thin thread of dizziness reached into his mind, strengthening exponentially in each second, becoming a tornado's funnel shaped cloud. Drawing him in, lifting him up, tearing him synapse from synapse. "Then remember," she said, turning in his loosened embrace. The redness of her lips momentarily anchored him −− blood red lips, his blood −− then he was swept away. Spring 1965 "Here it goes!" he said to no one in particular. The billiard ball, winding its way through the intrinsically complex maze of tracks and tubes, had activated all the blue lights. Falling into the bottom of the small but, to a ten year old, impressive air cannon the heavy sphere cued the final circuit to initiate the blast of air. Racing up the eight−foot barrel, it flew in a parabolic path high above the Plexiglas barrier causing oohs and aahs of appreciation. The ball landed with a resounding bang inside a large funnel, rattling rhythmically as it whirled in ever−smaller circles toward the tube leading back to the beginning of the process. The woman standing nearby laughed delightedly. "I've been standing here forever, trying to predict it. How did you know?" "All the lights turned blue." He pointed out all the junctions with the blue and red lights along the track. "Like a binary code," he added. She gave him a puzzled look. Didn't grown−ups know anything? "Not about the binary code," she answered. "Wow, neat. Can you read minds?" he gushed. "Sometimes, but tell me about this code," she reminded him. He remembered his manners and stuck out a hand tacky with the residual traces of the handful of jujubes he'd just finished. "I'm Michael Beiler." She solemnly shook his hand, laughing instead of scowling when her hand stuck to his. "Pleased to meet you, Michael Beiler. Call me Rina." He frowned and admitted, "My mom says to call grown−ups by their last names. You know. Miss Eddings, Mr. Todd, Mrs. Zook." She glanced around conspiratorially and whispered, "I'm not really a grown−up −− so the rule doesn't apply." He looked closely, doubting her words. She looked like a grownup, mostly. A sweater in a sweater set, a skirt and, what his mom called, sensible shoes. She carried a book bag filled with maps and brochures sticking out of its unzipped pockets. "I don't know." An idea occurred to him. "How about Miss Rina?" he asked happily, having solved the problem in his mind. "I can live with it. So Mr. Michael," she said, smiling when he giggled at his name. "What are you doing wandering around the Institute by yourself. Drive down the Schuylkill for a quick visit?" He rolled his eyes. "Nooo! I'm here with Explorer Club. Mr. Todd's okay, he lets us split up as long as we don't leave the building." "I see." Rina watched the ball machine. "Now?" she asked. Michael glanced through the tangled tubing and tracks. "No, it'll turn the one by the bell red. Okay, start at the top. Here comes a blue striped one. First it'll either go left or right, depending on which way the ball before went. Left, that turned the light red... See? No cannon to the left. Now the next ball, it turned the first light blue. So maybe." They watched the ball drop level by level. This ball rode a small Ferris wheel at the bottom, before dropping into the loading queue for the return to the top. "That's binary code?" Rina asked. "Nah, but kinda. On or off, zero or one. Same thing really. Binary code is how we'll get machines to talk to one another. Each letter and number will be assigned a code, a bunch of plus and minuses. Electrical jolts or whatever, letting machines carry information." "Why?" she asked. 10

"Say a guy in Alaska wants to send a bill to another guy in Florida. He could call and tell the man, but the guy wants a copy." "Why?" He sighed. "It doesn't matter why. He wants it." "So the Eskimo can send it in the mail." The funny picture of an Eskimo standing on an iceberg entered his head. The fur clad man leaned on a mailbox with the little red flag pointing up. The empty ocean surrounded the patient looking guy, not a mailman in sight. Her smile told him she had shared the joke with him on purpose. He laughed. "This is faster −− like in a second. The Florida guy can have a copy right away, instead of waiting." "The Eskimo still will have to wait for his payment." "Nope. If words can transfer, so can money from one bank to another." She regarded him carefully. He could tell she thought he was pulling her leg. "Really! All kinds of this stuff can be done. People won't go to the post office to send mail. They'll telephone, instead." "You learned this by watching billiard balls fly into the air?" she asked with a sigh. "Don't be silly. Come on, I'll show you the electric room." Michael began to turn away. "Wait, here it goes again." They watched as each of the proper lights shone blue and the air cannon with its distinctive pop fired a purple ball toward the vaulted ceiling. Spring 2003 "We went to the planetarium show together," he murmured, enjoying the coziness of her flannel−sheeted bed. "I gave you my sunglasses to hide your eyes. Do you still have them?" "Yes." Her lips brushed his ear lightly. "My teacher laughed when I told him I met an alien. He told me to write a story about it." Michael remembered not telling his mother about the woman at the Institute. She had warned him about talking to strangers, but doubted creatures like Rina had ever crossed her mind. The passage of time had dulled the countenance of his companion to one of a parade of faceless adults of those days. The one grown−up of his childhood whose face he would see again and again. Unchanged though disguised as a student, as a friend, as a business acquaintance −− or as a teenager on summer vacation. Summer 1971 Michael moved his towel a bit further from the circle defining his mother's established territory. A nebulous claim on an aggressively defended piece of beach, instead of peeing on the boundaries, she placed sandals, buckets, bags, coolers and a huge umbrella at any disputed corner. He sighed. A month at the shore, it could have been fun. If only his parents had chosen Wildwood instead of Bethany, a condo instead of a cottage, and if mom had kept the car to haul her four tons of survival equipment the half mile to the beach each morning. A summer at the beach could have been improved if Bryan's family had come or if Aunt Mary hadn't. He rolled to his stomach, watching his mother and aunt play one of their endless card games. His sister had run off with other ten year olds, he could see them in the surf, squealing in delight as each wave broke on the sand. Baby waves, but he'd heard the Inlet had some big breakers. No car, no way to get there since mom wouldn't let him go anywhere without Laura trailing him on her pink, banana seat, Barbie bike. A family beach, no hippies, no beach campers, no motorized sand vehicles allowed. No pets, no beer, no fun. The sidewalks rolled up after nine and the quiet could smother anyone wanting more. He closed his eyes, the afternoon sun strong in the cloudless blue sky. Four weeks until Labor Day. Endless days of paralyzing boredom, endless dinners with Aunt Mary and her special diet, endless spats with Laura, endless chafing at his mother's restrictions, endless nights full of unexplored possibilities. With luck, he'd drown today. A soft crunching of footsteps in the sand opened his eyes. Darkly tanned ankles and curvy calves flashed by. Those were definitely not the legs of a baby−laded young mother. Trim thighs and, oh Lord, a perfect butt 11

in a fairly modest bright yellow bikini bottom. Still good. A tiny bit too much cloth covered but an improvement on the usual fare. He raised his chin and rested it on his forearm, looking toward the ocean but watching the girl over his sunglasses. Wavy hair so blond it glinted silver, hung almost to her nice behind. A glowing tan and, as she dropped her beach bag onto the sand, he could see no flash of white, no visible tan line, as the bathing suit crept higher over her rump. The halter−top also covered more than he wished, but on a family beach she stood out like a centerfold. The few present weekday men registered her with more than casual regard but Michael, lucky in her choice of sand, had a front−row seat for his viewing pleasure. She stood, having raised a hand to shadow her eyes, and looked up at the nearest hotel. Tentatively, she waved and by craning his neck Michael caught a glimpse of a female figure on an upper floor waving back. The girl dumped the contents of her bag onto the sand and, with a moment's preparation, settled her lovely form onto a bright yellow towel and gazed at the breaking surf. Suddenly she turned her head and looked straight at him. The eye contact went on and on, finally interrupted as a random gust of wind scattered the cards and loose objects. "Mike! Help us." His mother and aunt scurried, gathering and clutching the wind tossed towels and napkins. Magazines and paperbacks fluttered like crows, flipping a time or two until the pages dug into the sand. Grabbing the umbrella as it threatened to become airborne, he noticed the blonde nimbly catching cards as they pin wheeled toward her. The gust diminished leaving all the sunbathers to re−establish their little domains. The girl rose to her feet, squaring the cards. She presented them to the women with a shy smile, and then helped brush sand from the blanket and chairs. "Thanks dear," Mary said as the helpful girl fetched the wide brimmed hat from a castle moat a few yards away. "You're very welcome, mam." "What's your name?" Michael's mother asked. He listened carefully as he re−anchored the umbrella's wooden pole into the sand. "Kathy Mills." The girl flashed a smile at her. "Martha Beiler and my sister, Mary Schaefer. That's my son, Mike. Laura is around here somewhere." She stood and scanned the surf. "Are you here alone, dear?" Mary asked. Kathy shook her head. "My mother is in our room. Too much sun gives her a headache." "Mike. I can't see your sister." Michael sighed and accepted the implied assignment. "I'll find her, Mom." Kathy smiled, catching his eye. "I'll help." Martha pulled two dollars from her wallet. "Buy some ice cream for yourselves after you find Laura." As the teenagers walked away, Michael heard his aunt say to his mother, hoping Kathy hadn't. "Mike's summer just improved, I think." Laura and her friends had migrated with the tidal push toward the boardwalk. Luring her with ice cream proved an easy task and, cones in hand, they churned through the sand to sit on a white wooden bench. Laura stood at the water's edge, sinking with each wave into the soft sand, the surf undermining her feet. The tutti−frutti ice cream dripped over her fist unheeded. Kathy licked her serving, savoring the flavor with her eyes half closed. "Good?" he asked. She smiled and nodded. "Yours?" "You bet." "Can I try some?" she asked. "Sure," he said, holding the cone toward her. She disregarded the cone and licked a drop from the corner of his mouth. "Delicious," she proclaimed. He sat in stunned silence, until his ice cream began to resemble Laura's. "Finish your treat, Michael," she said with a laugh. Later, he chided himself for not pursuing the obvious invitation. 12

Returning to the Beiler kingdom by the sea, the trio discovered the adults packing the paraphernalia into the various bags and crates. The wind had continued to gust unexpectedly and a hint of darkness had appeared in the sky to the south. The ladies had decided to leave the beach before the presumed storm could cause chaos. The umbrella and chair vendor had begun to collect the equipment abandoned by other cautious vacationers. "Perhaps, Mrs. Beiler, Michael and I could load these things in my mom's car. She won't mind if I borrow it." "I don't know, Kathy," Martha replied, clearly tempted by the idea. Kathy shrugged. "I've had my license for over a year. I got it when we lived in Chicago. Driving here is much safer than there. It's only a two−seater, though." Seventeen, she was seventeen. The phrase ran through Michael's thoughts as he rolled towels and strapped them to the cooler lid. Say yes, mom, he mentally begged. "Maybe you could teach Mike how to drive," Laura piped up; unaware how close to death she strayed. "He's flunked twice, now." She danced nimbly out of reach of his pinch. Maybe she did know. "Hush, Laura." Martha eyed the gathering thunderheads. "Okay. We'll start back. You know the way, Mike?" "Mom! Yes." She could be as embarrassing as Laura and with less effort, shots to his gut hardly broke her stride. "Don't leave anything. Make sure you get all the trash," Martha called back as she, Mary and the skipping Laura headed toward the access path over the dunes. He and Kathy took several trips to the hotel's garage with the safari equipment. Kathy invited Michael to accompany her to drop off her small bag. The door had been left unlocked; Kathy's mother nowhere to be seen. The room had a great view of the ocean. The deepening color in the water confirmed the nearness of the impending storm. Michael watched the sea birds reel and swoop, scavenging the beach's treasures of old French fries, crumbled cookies, and sandwich remnants. "Ready?" Kathy asked. She slipped up behind him and looked out over the ocean. She had pulled on a pair of worn denim shorts and a soft yellow camp shirt, tied under her breasts. "Did you ask about the car?" "I don't need to ask, Michael. The car is mine. I just thought your mom would feel more comfortable if she thought it belonged to an adult." He shrugged. "You're right. But is a lie the best way to begin a relationship with her?" Kathy grinned, which set her dark brown eyes to sparkling. "I don't intend to have a relationship with your mother, Michael." Her words left him reeling with its innuendo of a possible relationship with him. The safari supplies took every bit of storage space in the sexy little convertible, including the space behind the seats. "Does she really need all this?" Kathy asked in amazement. "Be prepared! I think she was a scout master in a previous life." He laughed and she joined him after a moment's puzzlement. Kathy pulled a baseball cap from the glove compartment and pulled her hair through the opening in the back. A pair of big sunglasses sat on the dash; she settled them on her nose with a flip of her head. "How do I look?" "Great. Like a movie star." Feeling bold, he smoothed her mane to lie smoothly over her shoulder. Something electrifying happened as the back of his hand brushed her bare skin. She opened her mouth to say something, then stopped and looked away. Finally she looked at him again. "A sweet thing to say, thank you." Kathy did drive well but faster than his mother would have liked, taking the longer route but arriving safely at the slightly shabby and homey bungalow in a tree lined cul−de−sac. "Cute," she proclaimed, killing the engine. "Mom and Laura share one bedroom, unless Dad's here. Aunt Mary gets the other," he told her as they began to unload the trunk. "The kitchen and living room are the area between. The bathhouse is over there." 13

He lifted the cooler through the screen door onto the porch while she held it open with her foot. "Where do you sleep?" As innocent as her question sounded, he blushed and swore at himself for it. "On the sofa or, usually, there." He indicated a hammock at the end of the screened porch. "Wow, I love these things." She dropped the bags she carried and wriggled into it. "Swing me." He gave the netting a push. She closed her eyes, giggling. After a few pushes, she swung her legs around and gestured for him to sit with her. "Swing with me." He sat next to her and she pulled him back. Her head hung upside down over the other side of the rope web. He joined her, pumping his legs to get the hammock swinging. He could feel the heat of her skin through his light tee shirt and the muscles of her thighs pressing against his as she swung her legs. Her laughter rang through the deepening gloom, the air thickening with the coming storm. There were lots of things he should be doing, but he hadn't swung like this since he turned eight. A splat of rain hit his face and the thought of her car jumped into his mind. "Your top is down!" he exclaimed. "What?" she asked, looking at her shirt. Laughing he pointed to the car. "Oh!" She laughed uproariously as she clambered out of the hammock and dashed off the porch. He helped yank the frame into proper alignment and snap it in place. They carried the remainder of Martha's safari gear onto the shelter of the porch. "Mike!" his mother's voice reached them. Burdened with bags of groceries, the women and Laura entered the lane. He and Kathy ran out into the downpour to rescue and retrieve. Soaking wet, the group entered the cabin's main room and began storing the supplies. Michael admired Kathy's amused tolerance of Laura's incessant questions and the only slightly more polite ones of Martha and Mary. No make−up, dressed in almost scrungy clothes, hair pony−tailed through a baseball cap, she was still the prettiest girl he'd ever seen. "How long are you staying in Bethany, dear?" Mary asked, with a quick glance at her uncharacteristically quiet nephew, intent on the block of cheese he'd been assigned to cube. Busily washing grapes in a colander, Kathy said, "On and off again until September, I suppose. Classes start the week after Labor Day." "Where do you go to school?" Laura asked, popping a grape into her mouth. "I'm going to live with my aunt on Long Island and attended a prep school in Manhattan." Her reply fell like a load of bricks into a glass pond. "Oh," Martha and Mary said together. "What's prep school?" Laura asked. Kathy looked around at the suddenly quiet ladies. "Prep school is where rich brats like me go to learn enough to pass college entrance exams, or meet rich boys to marry." Her answer, though clearly tongue−in−cheek, had been exactly what Michael had been thinking. The silence of the women indicated they had shared the sentiment. Kathy dried her hands and knelt before Laura. "Prep school is really just a place where rich parents park children when it becomes inconvenient to cart them around." She looked at Michael and the ladies in passing with a rueful grin. "Actually, I'm looking forward to staying an entire year at the same school." "Won't you miss your mommy?" "Not as much as I'll miss my brother." Laura's grimace of repugnance at Michael precipitated a chuckle −− or four −− and she exclaimed, "You like your brother?" "Yep, a whole lot." The awkward moment passed in the enjoyment of Laura's look of astonished disbelief. Dinner, soup from a can and toasted cheese sandwiches with tomatoes, didn't take long and the few dishes cleaned up in a snap. Laura dragged out a Yahtzee game, talking Michael and Kathy into 'just one game'. Martha put a stack of albums on the record player starting with Mary's favorite, a Patsy Kline golden oldie. Kathy sang along with many of the singles, knowing all the tunes and lyrics. After the second game of dice, in which Laura got away with blatant cheating to achieve her resounding win, the final album finished. Mary yawned over her cross−stitch and noticed the time. "Gracious, it's past ten!" "Your mother will be worried, you'd better get a move on, Kathy," Martha added. "Walk our guest to her 14

car, Mike." The admonishment was unnecessary, as he had already opened the door for her. Laura waved goodnight. The rain had stopped and the night echoed with sounds of trees shaking off the moisture. The voices of toads and crickets dueled to rule the airwaves. "Thanks for staying, we're a boring bunch," he said as she slipped into the car. "Anything but, Michael. I had fun. Beach tomorrow?" she asked the question before he could. "Probably. Usually around eleven." "Tell your mom I'll be here at ten forty−five to haul her stuff to the beach." She put her hand on his. "It'll be a great summer, I think." "Me too," he agreed, adding to himself, as she backed around and drove away, "Now." The days settled into a comfortable pattern, Kathy joining the little group easily. Each day he'd store up her movements and smiles to replay them in the less restrained moments before falling to sleep each evening. Once in a while, her eyes would light upon him as if she knew of these imaginary interludes in which she played a starring role. One afternoon, she proposed taking Laura to the drive−in to see 'Benji'. To Michael's surprise, his mother agreed −− cautioning that Laura not be allowed too much chocolate or soda. Later that evening Laura, washed and pajama'ed, sat tucked up on the hump between the seats of the little car. The trip was accomplished at a sedate speed; his sister's report would impact only positively on Martha's impression of Kathy's driving. She parked in the first row and spread a large blanket on the ground in front of the car. Pillows emerged from the trunk and, by the time Michael returned with popcorn and soda, Laura huddled cozily into her nest. She jabbered away, flinging kernels into the air, trying to mimic Kathy's impressive record of seventeen consecutive catches. The previews started at dusk and the advertisements for the snack bar followed, then the opening moments of the movie. Laura watched, enthralled at first, gradually falling into a slumber from which no amount of shaking could budge her. "I guess we should pack it in, then." Kathy carefully crawled over the sleeping Laura, with a grin on her face. "Now why would we do that, just as the movie is starting to get good?" The movie about a dog had been cute but sappy. He glanced up at the screen, wondering what he'd missed. He looked at her in bewilderment and received a kiss that could have graced the silver screen in another kind of movie. Definitely a sexy one, he thought, trying to find a reasonable place to put his hands. The other patrons had parked closer to the playground or the snack bar. No one, but maybe the ticket seller, could possibly see them. Had she planned it this way or just taken advantage of an interesting coincidence? Funny how much easier such things went when he was the only participant. Imagination had a wonderful way of smoothing out the unknowns into a seamless process. His awkwardness didn't appear to deter her intentions and she guided his hands, moving them from her waist to her breasts. As he kissed her, his nervousness left him, replaced by calm mixed with spit−less excitement. His fingers found the top button of her short blouse. One button, then two −− her skin felt hot. "Do you have a sunburn?" he asked, suddenly realizing how dumb it might be to talk of normal stuff in this moment. She kissed his forehead. "No, I'm always like this." "You have a fever?" "All the time, it's normal for me. Cuddly aren't I?" The last button slipped through the fabric. No bra and the nipples tightened as he watched. Damn. Faced with an entirely new situation, he required a brief retreat into the only slightly more familiar. Kissing Kathy was an education in itself. City girls knew interesting variations on a never dull theme. Kiss her neck first, then downwards, he told himself. Worry then about what may come next. She sighing slightly as he explored and experimented. "That's nice," she murmured. She liked it. Fine, he'd continue until she stopped him, which happened far too soon. "The movie's almost over. Compose yourself, then help me with Laura." 15

He thought of the cold showers in the bathhouse and, when that attempt failed, he remembered his one glimpse of his father and mother being intimate. Instant shrivel. He held Laura on his knees as Kathy hot−rodded her car back toward Bethany and the cabin. His imagination had fresh fuel for a midnight bonfire. One Friday evening, Kathy suggested the boardwalk. Mary begged off, but Martha thought a long walk would settle the rammy Laura down. Music drifted out from the rec−center, at the far end of the miniature series of stores and restaurants that made up Bethany's boardwalk. "Oh, a dance. Let's go in!" Kathy exclaimed, with a sidelong look at Michael's knowing face. Martha glanced at the well−chaperoned throng and shook her head. "Laura and I'll buy some taffy, then head back. You kids come straight home at eleven. I'll be waiting up." She turned her back and strode purposefully up the street, Laura in tow. "She fell for it," Michael observed in awe. "Nah, she trusts me to keep you out of trouble." "Where are we really going?" he asked, hopefully. She glared at him in mock severity. "To the dance, Michael." "I can't dance," he stated bluntly. "Sure you can, but it doesn't matter. We'll have fun, anyway." Dancing turned out to be better than Yahtzee and the opportunity to hold her tightly during the slow songs improved his temper immeasurably. The long walk home had ample moments for leisurely kissing and increasingly bold caresses. She liked his touches, squirming closer, pressing against him. After one particularly amorous embrace, which ended in giggles as the fence they leaned against broke with a gunshot loud crack, she asked, "How do you picture this ending?" "Tonight?" he replied, puzzled. "No, you big galute, us. This summer romance thing?" Exasperation crept into her voice. "I don't picture it. In fact, I avoid thinking of anything beyond tonight's dream of you," he admitted. She laughed, and then smothered it quickly. "Now that was a wonderful thing to say, and you meant it, too?" He nodded, thankful for the darkness that hid his reddened cheeks. "Best compliment I ever got. Thank you." He grasped her hand and swung it as they walked. "I feel like Beaver Cleaver on his first date." "Who's Beaver Cleaver?" she asked. "An old TV show. You know. Stereotypical family, like none in real life." "If they are stereotypical, shouldn't they be like real people?" "Yeah, but they never are. Anyway, holding your hand would be an accomplishment in a show like that." "Instead of groping my tits?" she laughed at his shocked silence. Talking about where his hands had wandered seemed somehow more risqué than the actual wandering. "Do you really dream of me?" He nodded. "Almost every night." "What do we do in these dreams of yours?" she prompted. His blush deepened, he should have known she'd ask. "You know." Not worth lying about, because she did know. "Sex?" she said. "Is it nice?" He sighed. "Stop it!" They entered the gravel lane leading to the group of bungalows. She stopped beside her car and wrapped her arms around his neck. "Are you a virgin, Michael?" she murmured in his ear, more a statement than a true question. "Well, I am not..." "Mike. Time to come in now. Good night, Kathy." His mother's order ended any hope for additional necking. Another kiss goodbye and she climbed into her car. Kathy rolled down the window and whispered, "By Labor Day, you won't be either." It took him until the porch door creaked shut behind him to work out her implication. 16

His dream felt especially real that night. Swimming at night, in a lake not the ocean. The water streamed around his naked body. He could feel the warm liquid eddy around him, a velvety caress. The water's nuzzling changed into a more material yet somehow gentler stroke of her hands. A float lay ahead, like the one at Boy Scout camp. The one he'd had to reach to pass his competency exam for his swimming badge. Constructed of scoured planks tied to empty barrels, the camp raft had been held in place by thick ropes covered in a puke−green slime. This platform stayed stationary anchored only by imagination. The dream raft floated only inches above the surface making the effort required to board minimal in comparison with the real thing. Her sleek head, hair braided in a single tight plait down her smooth back, broke the surface between his knees. Immediately the dream took an interesting twist from his normal nocturnal meanderings. Her hands and mouth performed an amazing act heretofore undreamed. Too real, he could feel the textured surface of her tongue on the length of his hardness, the draw of her lips on the skin, the spasms of his quick orgasm. He reached down and lifted her out of the lake and rolled to pin her beneath him. Water evaporated from her body in steam−like trails of ghostly vapor, the colors not muted as in his regular dreams, but vivid like a surrealistic picture. The silver of her hair, the brown of her skin and eyes, the rosy−pink of her nipples and lips, filled his dream eyes. He could taste the not−quite−pure flavor of lake water on her skin and smell the vanilla cream scent of her body. The moon shone brightly, the void of night's shadows enhancing the beautiful white of her teeth. Sharp teeth, he realized as she bit his neck. Hard were her teeth and again, suddenly, also his cock. Her thighs were velvet firm and welcoming wet. The sensation of intercourse far exceeded any previous fantasy. He could hear his own moan, part pain, all pleasure, as if from a great distance. Her lips looked so dazzling red after feeding and the slick coppery taste of her so−soft kisses filled with his blood made his mind spin like a ball in a funnel. Somewhere in the depths of his consciousness, he realized the dream had become a weird nightmare, but the aftermath of the bloodletting was a powerful orgasm so vivid that he hoped the nightmare would start again. Warm arms around his neck roused him, her brown eyes half−closed in sleepy regard not an inch from his own. "Best dream I ever had," he whispered groggily. Her teeth in his neck convinced him the dream continued, so he stopped pretending to be awake. The hot days sped by, the routine interrupted by his father's infrequent visits, the occasional thunderstorm and the news of a rip−tide drowning a child at Fenwick. Miniature golf, long walks, bi−weekly dances, and a rare and wonderful drive−in movie extended the evenings well past eleven. Michael felt the weight of his mother's worry lessen with each passing day. His tolerance of Laura's tantrums and peskiness increased until, other than amusement and a little impatience, her behaviors affected him not at all. Even Aunt Mary's preoccupation with the state of her health took on the texture of wallpaper, distant enough to be ignored and finally forgotten. The sometimes−suffocating humid nights were filled with erotic dreams and fantasy. The beach filled each sunny day with sand and seawater. Kathy learned to body surf in the waves and cheered for herself whenever she accomplished the trip without being crushed in the skree. Watching her saunter out of the churning silted water, slipping in the drier sand on her way to the Beiler domain, Michael wished time would stop. As much as he'd tried to ignore it, the precious hours had fled and left him with only a few days until Labor Day. The end of summer holiday had always heralded unwelcome changes and this year would be no different. Kathy in New York, him in Lancaster, though somehow he knew even if only miles separated them, the relationship's finale would come −− and the beginning of the end was marked by Labor Day. "Come on," she commanded as she reached the blanket. "We gotta talk." "Where are you kids off to?" Martha called, glancing up from the millionth game of rummy. "I'm full of sand. We'll bring back sodas. Okay?" Kathy explained. Her voice changed when she spoke to his mother, he noticed with awe. It would change in a different way when Laura was the sole audience. She reserved a special voice for him alone. "Say hello to your mother for me, dear," Mary added, as Martha nodded her consent to the excursion. 17

"Sure." The room felt cool and quiet after the sun and noise of the beach. Kathy went into the bathroom and he heard the water running in the shower. A hot shower he supposed, with a twinge of jealousy. He glanced in −− what the hell, she'd left it open. The outline of her body looked distorted by the textured steamy surface of the shower enclosure. Her suit hung over the top, dripping in a steady stream down both sides of the glass panel. "Where is your mother?" he asked. "Israel, I think," she answered, sliding the door open. "Do you want to come in?" Her nudity stopped whatever words his mouth had attempted to form. She resembled his dream Kathy down to the last freckle and dimple. His eyes, following a lucky droplet, slid down her neck, over the ridge of her collarbone and slid freely around the curve of her breast. His joined with other happy rivulets at her inny bellybutton to form a trickling brook, which flowed merrily over one gently curved hip, and down one of the stunning thighs. "We can't take long. You mom will worry," she interrupted his reverie as his water guide slipped behind her slightly bent knee. He stepped into the shower, the spray almost hot enough to cook a lobster. The steady flow seemed a waterfall compared to the pitiful dribble in the bathhouse plumbing. The deluge drenched him and he felt her hands slippery with soap on his chest and arms. "Turn around," she ordered, her hands scoured his back and neck. The shampoo lathered easily and her fingers massaged his scalp. "Rinse." "Wow." "Me or the shower?" she asked. He didn't open his eyes. "The shower. I have no words to describe you." He felt her licking drops from his chin. "You are getting very good at this compliment thing." Her hands loosened the elastic of his trunks. Michael grabbed her hands. "You said we don't have much time." She laughed and stepped out of the shower. "Get the sand from your suit," she said, sliding the panel closed. He peeled off his trunks, gladly. The water encouraged sloth, the quick rinse taking longer than his regular morning shower. The towels were thick and soft, not stiff from sun drying. Kathy appeared at the doorway wearing a one−piece flowered bathing suit. Too much cloth but it was cut high on her legs and low on her back, exposing enough to encourage his admiration. Her naked body had held far too much charge to do anything but flabbergast him. "I have the sodas. Hurry." Easier said than done, his wet suit developed a contrariness to match his haste. She stood on the balcony waving to Laura, who jumped around excitedly, pointing and flapping her arms, like a seagull in a popcorn rain. "Your mom is in Israel? The Jewish Israel?" he asked. "Is there another?" she asked with a smile. "When did she leave?" Kathy glanced up at him as she draped her bikini over the back of one of the cast iron lounges. She shook her head. "My mother was never here, Michael. I came alone and I'll leave the same way." "I saw you wave to someone and she waved back," he argued, remembering the woman on the balcony. She laughed. "Wave to a stranger, right now." Michael leaned over the railing and waited for someone to look. A man with three kids glanced up and smiled, returning the friendly wave with a greeting of his own. "Oh my God." A goofy grin materialized like a Cheshire Cat's as the full import of this discovery struck him. "Basically, you can go anywhere and someone will appear to know you?" She nodded. "Especially in casual situations like this one." "Wow." But, "You travel around alone? Do hotels let a kid check in by herself?" "Kid?" She snorted a laugh. "I send the reservation by mail and include full payment plus a security deposit," she explained. "Then I dress in a suit or more formal clothing to check in. People usually don't look too hard beyond the disguise." "You brought me up here to tell me this? Boy, have we wasted a lot of time." He waggled his eyebrows at 18

her, but the naughtiness didn't amuse her as he had expected. "I don't think we wasted any of it, but that really wasn't what I wanted to discuss with you," she said. "I asked you before how you thought we'd end. Have you decided?" "I thought I had, but your freedom to travel changes everything," he said; hope springing full−formed into his heart. "No, it changes nothing. Only illustrates how poorly I'd fit into your world. I can't be seventeen for more than a few weeks." "You're older, I knew it. Why would you pretend to be seventeen? It's a God−awful age. Not an adult, not a kid." "The perfect age for spending the summer with you. I wanted this very much," she admitted, tears forming quickly and receding in the next moment. To be with him? "Me? But you didn't know me." She gestured dismissively. "Not true, but not relevant. You've felt it yourself, the magic timelessness of this summer. A month in a globe, with sand instead of snow. Encapsulated and insulated like there is no such thing as a before and won't ever be an after. A year ago, you were too young and next year would be too late. I wanted to be your first, since I can't be your only." "First? Only?" "Love. Infatuation. Partner in your fantasies. Pick one, or a combination." She sighed. "We should go back." She glanced back to the beach, where Martha waited arms akimbo. "I don't want an end. Let's find another way." "I can't stay in your world and you're too young to make the decision to live in mine." Not caring that his mother could see, he pulled her close and gave her a kiss to rival the ones in his dreams. All his heart poured into his lips, his emotions caught in the circle his arms made. She had to feel the impassioned silent pleading. "I dream of you −− night after night, kind of strange and not always nice. God, I never want them to end but when this summer ends, they will. Won't they?" "Probably," she began. "Yeah, when I leave so will they." "Are they just dreams?" "Would you want them to be anything else?" she asked, a strange half−smile on her wide mouth. He shrugged. "Let them stay dreams, Michael," she said. She gathered the sodas into a small−netted bag, and led him from the room. He wondered what her answer would have been if he had said yes. Four days later the season officially ended with a terrific display of fireworks over the ocean and the Beilers returned to Lancaster County in time for tight shoes and tighter schedules. After a few unanswered letters, Michael had stopped writing to the pretty blond to whom he'd officially lost his virginity the final night of that jocund summer. The wildly erotic dreams took on the dim vagueness of time past as new activities, challenging academic courses, and nubile and suddenly available cheerleaders caught his teenager's obsessive imagination. Michael had remembered Kathy quite completely −− he'd just forgotten Kathy was Katie. Spring 2003 The smell of frying eggs reached into his dreams and turned him right side out. Sunlight drenched the lower half of the bed in a golden glowing pool. He stretched, joints popping in protest. His jeans and shirt lay neatly over the back of an old−fashioned rocking chair. Washing his face and grimacing at the roughness of his day old beard, he noticed a tiny scratch low on his neck. A close look at the inner side of his elbow revealed a similar puncture. Not a dream, not his imagination. Her desire for his blood as real as her unchanging face, as real as her ability to deduct his most intimate secrets, and as real as her continual presence in his life. Let it go, he told himself. His wrist, when freed from the elastic bandage, felt stiff but not sore or tender. A quick search of the medicine cabinet yielded a razor and shaving cream, as he knew it would. His mother had nothing over Kathy −− Kate −− when it came to being prepared. He shaved and showered and, 19

after dressing in his own clean, dry clothes, followed his nose back to the kitchen. Hash browns, ham and eggs, buttered toast with jam awaited him. "No worries about cholesterol either?" he commented between bites. Kate smiled. "You humans worry about the most inane things." The bite stuck in his throat and it took several gulps of milk to wash it down. The shadow of sadness staining her eyes gave mute testimony to her clear reception of the thought that had choked him. "You're not human?" he grabbed the question by its thorns and quit dancing around the fact. "Defining human as what?" she asked rhetorically. "Are we Homo sapiens? I guess not exactly. More like a subspecies, Homo sapiens viraran." "Viraran? I've heard the word before." The word echoed in his ears. "What's it mean?" "Umm, that's difficult." She dropped her chin to her chest thinking. "First, I should define arvir and arviran. Arvir means a lord due to the rights of blood. Master by privilege of birth." She glanced at his face, and continued when he nodded his understanding. "Arviran means the people with rights of blood. T'arvir means not lord. Something lesser but still having rights conferred by birth." "Okay, I follow. How about viraran? The −an ending still denotes the people. Right?" he asked, catching on. She nodded. "The syllables are the same. Vir and ar. By inverting them the new word means the opposite of the original word." "So t'arvir and virar are the same thing?" he ventured. "No. Not negation, inversion." She blushed. "No birthright. The slaves of the blood of kings." "Wait." He needed a breather. "What language is this?" "T'arviran because arviran, the master tongue, was forbidden. Viraran were pets or toys. Trainable but limited." She wandered out to the living room and he followed with another question. "Where did t'arviran originate?" She murmured something like 'Pay dirt' while gently moving a brass tablet with an acrylic cube to the low coffee table. "Huh?" he asked. Kate shushed him and pressed her fingers to the top of the cube. The surface glowed and a slightly static sounding music began. A flickering figure appeared about three feet above the cube, dressed only in a diaphanous veil tied around her hips. A woman, too thin for beauty, swayed to music that, in Michael's ears, sounded like an uneasy mix of harem tunes and acid rock. The dancer displayed her charms without shame. Frankly sexual, the dance had been designed to intrigue and seduce. He had never seen a movie so utterly pornographic. He walked to a different vantage point, the image stayed accurate in three dimensions. Suddenly with a burst of static, the picture changed. A different woman sat on a window ledge, looking out. This image also appeared three−dimensional but the picture disappeared at 180 degrees. Michael realized suddenly the picture stopped where the wall holding the window would be. He sunk onto the tiled hearth, knees shaking again. The woman spoke casually, gesturing freely. Her hands would caress her own skin, or comb languorously through her golden brown hair, though the effect was of a cat's self−grooming rather than a sexual connotation. "What's she saying?" he asked. "I can't translate, but my grandmother claimed she speaks of lying, how to hide knowledge from the masters, even during sending." "Sending?" '!' Send felt strange, like the opposite of anesthesia. She floated an extra layer of thought over his own. He received a picture of a world full of people wearing earmuffs and laughed. "We don't listen too well?" "No, and many not at all." He glanced up at the woman in the video. "Who is she?" "Our Moses, our Abraham Lincoln. She led some of us out of slavery and into the dubious ecstasies of 20

freedom." "Dubious?" She shrugged. "Some wished to go back. Slavery was easier." "Why?" She touched the top of the cube and the picture vanished. "Marran gave us freedom. Never knowing, we'd be as free to fail as prosper. I think surviving the transition had to be difficult. They didn't know how. Farming, child rearing, hunting and trade were foreign concepts. So many decisions foisted upon people who had never made one in their lives." "They made the decision to leave slavery when offered the chance." "No. The arvir decided who would stay and who would go." Kate put the tablet and cube back on the shelf. "She preached the danger of staying. The arvir had become addicted to us. At some point they be driven would exterminate us, or tamper our genetics again." "Wait. Your genetics?" He thought he'd misheard. "Where in God's creation...?" "Your God had no part in our genesis, though he designed our forefathers." "Huh?" A picture started to form in his head, but obligingly disappeared as he pushed it away. "We didn't evolve on Earth. Some early humans were kidnapped and genetically engineered into viraran. Marran contrived our release and return a few millennia ago." "Alien abduction?" He started laughing and his laughter went on and on. She had taken him hook, line and sinker until the part about little green men and her Joe−Bob tales of 'sex−shue−all' experimentation. Her look of patient confusion instigated a fresh spate of hysterics. Finally with a look of complete disgust, she left the room. He heard the patter of her bare feet on the stairs. Subduing his laughter, he followed. Her bedroom door was locked. "Come on, Katie. Don't be angry. It's just too ridiculous," he said, swallowing the fresh gale rising toward a poorly timed outburst. He heard the click and, when the door stayed closed, tried the knob −− open. The windows were unlatched and she stood on a landing just outside. "Ridiculous? What makes this history ridiculous?" He'd used the wrong word obviously. "All those stories of alien abductions −− come on." The breeze from the wooded yard smelled of pine. "Your damned human legends." The ice of her eyes chilled her voice, "Tell me, Mr. I−refuse−to−be−made−foolish Beiler. What makes one legend less ridiculous than another?" Yep, the wrong word. "Evidence?" he said, leaning on the window frame. "What hard evidence do you have of the identity of the self−proclaimed Son of God, your Christ? What evidence do you have of the accuracy of the Big Bang Theory of the universe?" she scoffed. "You simply pick the things you choose to believe. You need no evidence." She stepped up on the skinny railing, causing his throat to constrict with concern for her safety. "Evidence, Michael? How's this?" She leaned over backwards and performed an expert walkover. "I'm at least your age." She hopped down. "How many forty−eight year olds do you know with my flexibility and balance?" She placed her hands on either side of him, her arms blocking his way. "You deny any evidence which disturbs you, or endangers your idea of this world's singularity." Her eyes flashed, the gold sparkling in the oblique sunshine. She nuzzled him. "Break free, Michael. Unless you like the feel of my teeth in your jugular." He jerked unsuccessfully, surprised by the strength of her grip. "Don't fret, I'm sure there are plenty of 134 pound women who can immobilize a 188 pound man." "Katie don't," he pleaded. Afraid again. "Don't what? I can't possibly be what I claim to be, because vampire legends are ridiculous. Right?" Her arms tightened around him, and the feel of her lips on his skin made him more frightened. "Wrong. Shall I send you a dream, of a raft on a lake? Oh, but telepathy is ridiculous, too." The send entered his imagination as her teeth slipped into his neck. As quickly as he had been snared, she set him free. She stepped past him into the sitting room and said in a hoarse whisper, "Most legends have basis in fact. Whether you acknowledge the truth is not relevant. I know −− from where I came, and of what I am." 21

He touched his neck, a tiny smear of blood. He suspected she had difficulty turning back once the blood had touched her lips, but she had. Was this little demonstration distasteful to her alien code of ethics? The sound of water running located her for him. She drank from her cupped hands −− handful after handful. "Kate?" He wanted to apologize for laughing at her. Her eyes met his in the mirror. "Go away. There's a television in the den off the living room and a computer. I'm going to go for a run. We'll talk after I shower." The warning rang out as clearly as if spoken. Stay away until she had regained her composure. Her anger needed an outlet. If she were pushed anymore, he would serve as well as anything else −− maybe better, considering he had triggered the eruption. He retreated. She hadn't come looking for him by lunchtime, so he ate some leftover salad. Maybe she slept in a coffin during the day? He snorted and wandered into the living room. An opened bottle of beer sat on the coffee table, still cold. He glanced around, enjoying the scavenger hunt. The stereo system had a note hanging from it. An envelope labeled: 'Michael'. 'Drink the beer. Push play. Read my note. ' K. One Heineken, as prescribed. The music started and he settled onto the deep sofa. He dragged one of the throws over his feet. She had chosen a Kansas CD, the one with Dust in the Wind, and Point of No Return. College music. She intended to help him remember, he realized. The music started no memory cascade. The Polaroid fell out of the envelope, Katie and him. He looked at it a minute while finishing the beer, trying to place the moment. No good. Unfolding her note, the beer began to take effect. No − not the beer. Whatever she put in it, he thought with a laugh. Her saliva gave a new twist to spitting in someone's beer. Michael, Between the music, the beer, the photo, and this note you'll remember enough to keep you busy for a while. Katie At the bottom edge of the paper two words had been printed in block lettering instead of her usual indecipherable scrawl. THE GAUNTLET Heat flowed into his face. The Gauntlet. God, what a piece of chauvinistic work he and his fraternity brothers had been. He remembered −− as if it were yesterday. Fall 1979 Ten more minutes, then his stint on the Gauntlet would be over. A pledge brought up a pitcher, good for him. Mooch marked the dweb's battered notebook. "Five points, Scab. Keep the pitcher full and I'll give you five more." Mooch never gave any pledge more than five service points at a time, so he always had one at his beck and call. Getting a hundred points took a long time at a nickel a throw. "Heads up!" A girl group turned up the sidewalk. Always in threes or more, the strategy seemed to be if one of the friends got lucky there would still be someone to share the walk back to the dorms. Toad and Ray−hog scoped the group. One girl, a leggy blonde in tight jeans and tee looked promising. Ray gave thumbs up. Toad, who hated tall girls, turned thumbs down. Mooch see−sawed. Michael shrugged; he'd seen one of the blonde's 22

friends tutoring a Knight in the library. Who knew, maybe the jock invited them and planned to show up. Football players attracted cheerleaders, cheerleaders attracted other guys, and other guys attracted pretty wanna−bees. Thumb up. "You're in. Buck each, ladies," Mooch leered. The blond grinned at him and blew a kiss to Ray−hog. Two Knights wandered along behind. Chi's never charged for jocks in season. Bung, one of three resident Knights, yelled a greeting to his comrades from the far end of the hall. Some athletes joined frats −− usually Sigs or Xis −− but, if they had brains, the Chi's. The pair eased through the doorway, scary how broad they could get. One raised a massive paw in a languid half wave, a royal indulgence. "Hey, Geez. Thanks for the help. I passed." "No prob, Terrel." Coach Aimes wanted these guys to leave Placid College with some semblance of the education promised. They paid for their degrees in torn knee cartilage and pulled groin muscles. Tutoring math to the Knights paid well and got some of them to the Chi house parties. Win −− win situation. Butzie showed up to relieve Michael. "How's the beer crowd?" "Getting deep and happy, Tiny turned up the sound." Michael stood, ready to head down to the party room in the basement. He wanted to change his shoes first. The slurry of the party room floor infiltrated, ruining many a pair. "Head's up. We got ourselves an only," Mooch said in a mocking tone. An only was a loner, usually a loser, trying to score a good party. She'd get in, if she had ten bucks. Laughed out if she didn't. This one had short dark hair, wearing no make−up, but had a more than passable face and figure. Dressed oddly in a short black jacket, the white top peeking out, an even shorter black skirt, and black high heels, she looked like a teenager dressed up in mom's clothes −− if mom was a hooker. Uh−oh. Michael sensed jailbait, maybe a townie. No way he'd let her through the door. The cops ignored bashes unless a local baby−girl got herself in trouble. Coeds only. Michael stopped her on the porch. "Got ID?" he asked. She glanced up at him from the corner of her eyes. Big brown, flecked with light. Deep. Mysterious. Michael shook free from his contemplation of the half−secrets he'd glimpsed there. "ID?" Her voice soft and husky, stirred him as darkly as her eyes. A nighttime voice made to whisper and encourage. "Driver's license, college student pass?" Michael felt a shivering slither up his spine. "Which?" "Either." He couldn't identify her perfume, like something he'd smelled before and almost recognized. Vanilla musk or ice cream. "Yes. Do you want to see?" Mooch laughed, "Oh yeah, honey, we wanna see what you got." Toad and Ray sniggered in appreciation of the innuendo. "This?" She pulled a student pass from her coat pocket. "Or this?" She slipped off the jacket. The white halter−top bared her entire back. "You're in," Michael said, surprised by the forcefulness of his response and also by the realization of his intent to scheme this one into bed. "Hey, a buck!" Mooch complained. "My pass." Michael ushered the solo flier into the chaos of the Theta Chi house. Ray−hog laughed as Toad pantomimed casting a fishing line and reeling in a catch. "The Geezer's going fishin'." Michael heard the parting shot and flashed a bird behind his back. "Liz will be pissed," Butzie said. "Who's gonna tell?" Toad replied reasonably. The girl stood in the middle of the meeting room, looking at the rummage sale furniture covered with discarded jackets. Greek Week trophies, pledge paddles and Charter documents drew her eyes for a quick read. The series of framed composites merited a longer study. A finger on one, and a quick glance at his face told him she had identified him. "Michael Beiler, Sergeant−at−Arms?" 23

He smiled and sketched a flourish with his hands. "In person." Looked good in the light too, though taller than his initial impression. "What does being a sergeant−at−arms entail?" Her voice had a subtle accent and cadence. "Mostly stupid stuff at meetings, lock the door, hand out fines. Use the paddle for pledge infractions." "The paddle?" She looked at the ones hanging from the wall, then back to him. He shrugged, better him than somebody with a sadistic streak. "You're correct," she agreed. "Incredibly stupid stuff." He privately agreed, but replied, "Tradition." "Some traditions are better forgotten, Michael." "It's not up to me to change them." She flashed the look again, a quick glance from her partially averted eyes. "If not you, then who?" "Somebody who cares, I guess." He thought she would disapprove of his answer, but she laughed. "You don't?" He shook his head. "I joined for a cheap place to live and for the ties after graduation." He told himself to shut up. He didn't owe anyone any explanations. She looked at him a moment. "No, you don't owe me anything. Should I leave this here?" she asked, swinging her jacket on her finger. Michael paused, her coat looked like leather. Leaving it unattended here invited a rip off fer−sure. "Well, you could put it in my room. You'd have to find me before you could go home." "Is that a problem?" "Not for me." He motioned for her to follow. "Are you from around here? Placid County?" "No. I lived last in New York." "City?" She nodded. "Which explains the clothes, I guess." "My clothes are inappropriate?" She stopped and looked down at herself. He laughed. Inappropriate? "Different, but really good." "Thank−you, but I sincerely doubt any of those men in your Gauntlet give a damn how I look −− with my clothes on," she said. Michael unlocked his door, laughing again at her candor. Strange girl. She stepped into the room and looked around curiously. Notes and diagrams covered his desk and worktable. Laundry lay strewn in a careless pile against one wall. His bed, hanging suspended from the ceiling with four heavy lengths of chain, unmade. Posters of Linda Ronstandt, Steven Hawking, and the Millennium Falcon adorned the scarred paint. Class schedule and tutoring sessions posted on his bulletin board along with a booth−picture of Liz and him. Oops, damn. She asked no questions but he knew she saw it. She ran her fingers along the strings of his guitar. "Do you play?" she asked, glancing over at him. Michael shrugged. "Some, not for a while." Nodding, she wandered to his worktable and tapped the pile of papers covered with figures and symbols. "You like math." "Yeah, and computers." "Computers?" "Building, programming, chip technology." "You mean those punch−card machines." "They've come a long way. Eventually, everyone will own one. Like a telephone, or a TV." "Oh?" Most girls hated math with as much passion as he thrived on it. He could feel his excitement pushing her away. Shut up! He searched for another topic. "What's your major?" "Smooth line." He grimaced. "Only one I've got, unfortunately." She laughed. "I'm here to monitor a guest lecture series −− Technology and Ethics. Placid State has a 24

notable philosophy program. Dr. Wenton is quite respected. Now, I think we've exhausted the subject, let's move on. Show me your party." Not 'let's go to the party', but 'show me your party', he mused. As if it were another course to be monitored. He opened the door for her, considering his options. Take her up to where Farmer had his pot gathering and played head music or downstairs for beer and rock and roll? "Hey, Geez. Keck says the tap's fucked, come quick," one of the pledges shouted from the end of the hall. That decided that. She asked, "Tap un−fucking is one of your duties?" Michael grabbed the spare tap from its hook by his door. "Not exactly, but I do own the spare one." He grinned. "Ah, a position of responsibility, indeed." He directed her down the hall toward the stairway with a light touch on her bare back. Silky, warm, and softly tanned. His eyes stayed fastened to the sight of his hand on her golden skin. Pausing at the door to the basement, she looked over her shoulder. He felt his face flush at her little smile. Did she know he'd been imagining the color of the rest of her skin? "I'm Casey Zurin, by the way." "Oh, and you already know I'm Michael." How stupid could he get not to ask her name first thing? "Not Geez?" "My frat nickname is Geezer." She looked puzzled. "Old man. I did two years hard labor in the flooring factory at home before coming to college." "Ah! I see. You make it sound like a punishment." "Yep. Pure hell. My dad's idea of gainful employment." "Why?" "He thinks my choice of majors is ridiculous." He lowered his voice in a gruff imitation of his father. "Never make a living there, son." Michael hitched his thumbs through imaginary suspenders. "And now?" "Certain I'm throwing away money but since it's not his..." Michael shrugged. "He thinks I'll crawl back someday." "You don't get along?" "Sure −− if we talk sports and weather. Nah, really −− he's okay −− just stuck in the 50's." "Where will you get stuck?" "I won't. I intend to go with the flow." "You won't know you're stuck until you are. Life plays tricks, Michael." She appeared quite serious. How did small talk get so deep? Talking about parents and life's rotten tricks to a girl in a tight black skirt and the legs to wear it. No panty hose that he could detect. She opened the door and music flooded out. Tiny had the system cranked. Bad Company's "Feel Like Making Love" reverberated up the cement block walls. Michael flinched, catching the suppressed smile on Casey's face, the song too appropriate. "Lead on, sir." "Stay close," he warned, abruptly worried about taking Casey into the crowded party room. He brushed by and felt a tug as she hooked her finger on his belt loop. "Will the wolves close in?" she asked, eyebrow arched. "Worse yet, my fraternity brothers." He started down the dimly lighted stairs. "And don't let Loser pour your beer." Couples groped in the half−light of the exit signs. He saw Casey's eyes flit over each pair. Raunchy introduction, he should have used the other set. The music intensified at each step and, rounding the corner, the vibrations became a physical presence. Every square foot of space held at least one body. Girls, in pairs and trios, sipped from plastic cups. Guys chugged eagerly, nudging one another, seeking courage. The room, damp and cold an hour ago, had warmed up a little. It would become a sauna by midnight. Slipping through the crowd required agility and a quick eye. Keck waved him on and the people nearest parted upon seeing the new tap in Michael's grip. The slight drag on his jeans assured him of Casey's 25

continued presence. A cheer lifted as the beer began to flow again. Michael filled two cups and, sighting a pair of pledges in one corner, steered a course for them. "Move it." He motioned with his head. "Twenty points each if you keep our cups safe and full," he yelled in one's ear and received thumbs up in answer. He handed Casey a cup and turned his back to the noise. "What do you think?" "Loud, hard to talk here." He shrugged. Nobody wanted to talk at these things anyway. He noticed goose bumps on her arms and glanced at her breasts. Yep, nice view. God, what was wrong with him? Liz, even with her homecoming queen beauty, never had this effect on his libido. A wobble in the crowd, a fortuitous bump and Casey lurched into him. He kept one arm around her. Moving his thumb slightly he could feel the curve of her breast through the silk top. Tiny kept a good mix going, playing a couple of up−tempo songs to get the girls dancing, always great entertainment. Predatory males scanned the gyrating dancers, eyes judging and appraising. Occasionally joining in, once eye contact had been established and the non−verbal signals deciphered. Laying temporary claim to territory and possibilities. Casey leaned into his arm and crooked her finger at him. She said into his ear, "Meat market, have them take off their clothing at the door and just have an orgy." He laughed. Town clowns would love that one. She swayed to the rhythm of a Foreigner tune, hips moving slightly. "Dance?" he asked. He handed their cups to the waiting pledges who would guard the beer and reserve their square foot of standing room. Michael's opinion had always been; 'No one knows how to dance, or cares if you can. So just dance.' Casey proved him wrong. She knew the moves. The music became her partner, its notes and rhythms holding her, turning her, guiding her hips and arms. She danced as if no one watched, but everyone did. Michael put a hand on her waist, wanting to connect somehow and felt drawn in by her energy. She twisted into his arms as the song ended and a slow song began. He sent a mental note of thanks to the deejay and the Eagles. She let him hold her very close. His hands caressed her back and the curve of her hips. Her tongue glided up his neck and Michael felt the nip of her teeth. He winced, hoping for no lasting marks that would need an explanation. Casey pulled away slightly. Her lips looked so red in the darkness, soft and eager. He kissed her, the salty metallic taste of his sweat on her tongue. Her mouth felt hot and slick. Feeling light−headed, supported by his arms around Casey, he stayed upright. How very cliché. All the blood rushing from his head ended up in one place. She couldn't possibly miss it. Her eyes stayed closed, a puppet on the strands of song. "My room?" he whispered. No way she heard him and he couldn't find the volume control on his voice box. She opened her eyes. "Why?" she asked. "Talk?" he mouthed. Her eyes laughed at his answer. He shrugged. Okay, too fast. He rested his cheek on the top of her head and enjoyed the intimate sway of her hips. The room smelled of beer and sweat, but Casey still smelled like ice cream. She felt nothing like Liz, strange and wonderful, instead of familiar and reliable. The song ended, too soon. He led back to their corner. Good pledges had full cups waiting. Taking a deep swig of his beer, he turned to give her cup back. No Casey. He saw her disappear around the corner. Damn. He fought through the crowd, jostling cups, stepping on toes, earning more than one elbow in retaliation. Michael raced up the stairs and pounded down the hall toward the front door. The Gauntlet had disbanded. Toad manned the door alone. "Did she go out?" Michael slid to a halt. "Who? Oh! Her! Yeah. I saw her cross the street. And Liz came in, she said she'd wait in your room." He chuckled in wicked appreciation of the Geezer's dilemma. Liz? She was supposed to be in Pittsburgh, visiting her sister for the weekend. "Damn it!" He made up his mind. "If Liz comes looking, tell her I went for more cups." He raced out the door. By the streetlights in the science−building parking lot he could see a receding figure. Casey. He caught up as she reached a small black Fiat convertible. 26

"Hey!" he called. "Your coat is in my room. Don't you need your keys?" He'd figure something out with Liz. She pointed to the ignition, the keys dangled. Grabbing her arm, he drew her around. "Don't go, I guessed wrong." "No, Michael, you guessed correctly." "I did?" Anger flared. "Are you playing hard to get?" "No, but you should." She tapped his chest. "I'm a stranger." "I feel like I know you." "Your lines are improving." "No line, really. Come back and we will just talk." He thought of Liz, in confusion. "What of the splendid red−head who asked about you as I left? She's waiting for you, Michael. Go talk to her. She's safe." Safe, yes. Liz would be safe. Did he want safe? "You're dangerous?" Her eyes rekindled him. "Oh, yes." "I like dangerous." Emboldened by her smile, he kissed her softly. A moan escaped, his or hers, he couldn't be certain. She wrapped her arms around his back and, with surprising strength, jerked him against her. Hard kisses −− lips, chin, chest and neck −− barely feeling another bite, lost as he was in the heat of her seeking hands. Dizzy with passion. Against the car, he felt the fender on the front of his legs, a solid thing in the whirling. Hands on her sleek rump, lifting her with the combined force of mutual urgency. The skirt posed no barrier and she wore nothing at all beneath it. God. Holding her as she arched, warm and eager wet, around his fingers. Cold metal chilled as velvet skin heated. The smell of asphalt, leather, pine tree sap and the indescribable scent of Casey filled the air. The insistent swiveling of her hips against his. Wanting more. Offering all. Maddeningly frustrated by the stubborn button rivet on his jeans. A passing car blared its horn, the wind swirling as it raced by. "Get a room!" someone shouted. Michael pulled away from the conflagration, dazed and self−conscious. Collecting his composure. "Go back to safe, Michael." Casey said, sliding into the driver's seat and starting the engine. He clutched the top of the door. Keep her talking −− say anything. "What about your coat?" She looked at him, amused. "I have others. Keep it." With a squeal of tires Casey drove off. Still breathless, he watched her taillights flash at the corner, and then she was gone.

Michael waited in the foyer of the lecture hall. The session had ended and several dozen serious looking students poured out. The small groups chatted about the lecture. No Casey. Finally, he heard the heavy door squeak open and the light tapping alerted him to someone coming down the marble staircase. Almost demure, Casey wore a dark green jumper and a yellow tee, flat shoes and a large shoulder bag. He found it hard to find the siren from the house party in this conscientious student. "Casey. Wait up." She stiffened, and then hastened her pace. "Come on. I have your coat." "I said to keep it." "How about your license, your student card?" She stopped and admitted, "Those I could use." "Have lunch with me." He saw hesitancy in her face. "Then I'll give them to you." An unmistakable flash of anger replaced the hesitancy. "Quit the childish games, Michael. Either give them to me, or do not." "Here," he said, handing over the cards. He'd already put her coat in her car. He resigned himself to lunch alone and avoiding Casey from now on. Shouldn't be difficult, the science and math buildings were on the newer side of campus. "Now, where will we have lunch?" she asked. Her smile seemed a rich reward for the simple favor. 27

Bob's Pub stood on a corner opposite the entrance to campus. Several generations of administrators had tried various methods to rid themselves of the attractive nuisance, but the fact remained; everyone ate there at least occasionally and popular support lay with the owner of the landmark. Michael chose a booth toward the back, Casey slid in beside him. He became increasingly aware of her knee against his. The waitress asked to see ID before fetching Michael his beer. "You Americans are obsessed with identification." "She's gotta be sure I'm legal. And what do you mean, you Americans? You're a New Yorker −− which, last time I checked, is still in the USA." "I said I lived there, I didn't say I'm from there," she said. "Why should it matter how old you are? If you act and look old enough whose right is it to say otherwise?" The food came quickly, the help accustomed to people with limited time. She bit into her sandwich with gusto. "Umm, good." Her face mirrored her enjoyment. A mobile expressive face, the only expression he hadn't seen was boredom. "So where are you from? The government has the right to set limits," he asked and argued, "Can we talk about one thing or the other, I'm starting to get confused." "No you're not, but yes we can." She grinned. "Democratic governments have no mandate to set limits on personal freedoms without the consent of the governed people. When the lawmakers set themselves above the law, making supposedly altruistic decisions contrary to the will of the people, the government is no longer a democracy." "What is it then." "A plutocracy. Government becomes a privileged society." Casey said between bites. "If the government takes care of the people, is it so bad?" "It isn't the function of government to do so. Each of us should be responsible for our own care. It is government's place only to prevent infringements, not to initiate them." "Then if someone yells fire in a crowded theater, it's okay by you?" "Sophomoric argument. Blatant endangerment of others should be against the law, a proper limit because such actions have consequences regarding the rights to personal safety of the patrons of the theater." Casey licked her fingers, Michael watched mesmerized. "So in your opinion, there shouldn't be a legal drinking age?" "Each establishment should set their own. Local custom and tradition would dictate a standard." "Sounds like anarchy." Wondering, despite his rapt attention to her arguments, if she would mind if he tasted her fingers. "The American way resembles Nazi Germany just prior to the war." "Oh, please." "They required registration of everything; guns, children, profession, religion, goods. All for the public good mind you. Knowledge is power. Don't trust governments to use such power wisely. In Germany such knowledge led to a holocaust. Jews, Gypsies, and scholars, to name a few of the groups affected by the simple step of completing a census form." "There was more to it than that." Lunch with her, and they argue politics? "Of course. But the demarcation is clear, the first step to tyranny is persuading the populace to willingly renounce personal freedoms. The loss of privacy is a prime example. Each step makes the next easier." She finished the last bite of sandwich. Michael laughed. "Hungry?" Half of his sandwich remained and she had done most the talking. "Always, I can't cook." "Can't, or don't?" She shrugged. "No difference in my case." "I've never seen you in the cafe." "You never shall. I'd rather starve than wait in line for such swill." "Swill?" He'd never actually heard anyone use the word. "Where are you from?" "Here and there, and everywhere." She smiled and, leaning against him, licked his cheek. "Michael with 28

mayonnaise, fabulous," she whispered. He could feel her breath on the barely moist track her tongue had left. The subtle curve of her breasts on his arm, her leg tight against his, claimed his imagination. The bite of sandwich turned to cement in his suddenly parched mouth. Casey stretched further, touching her lips to his and, with a quick dart of her tongue, stole the piece of food. Chewing nonchalantly, she sipped her water and settled back into her place. With utter clarity, Michael knew she waited for his reaction −− and would judge him on it. "Want more?" he asked, holding another bite teasingly in his teeth. Casey smiled. He'd given a good answer then. "Hello Mike." A familiar voice intruded in the erotically intimate moment. Liz, her red−haired temper clearly revealed in the snapping blue eyes, stood stiffly at the other side of the booth. Her fists were clenched beneath the pile of books she carried, knuckles whitened to transparency. The smattering of despised freckles, which normally hid beneath her tan or powder, appeared in stark relief in the shocked paleness of her cheeks. "Liz? Hi!" Michael felt both girls regarding him. Liz with evident anger, Casey with something less well defined, like curiosity. "Ah, this is Casey." "Pleased to meet you, Liz." "Me too." Liz's eyes traveled from one to the other, the question almost tangible. Casey slid from the booth. "Excuse me, I have a class. Thank you for returning my cards, I couldn't imagine where I'd lost them," she said, giving him an excuse −− if he chose to use it. Michael watched her walked toward the door. "Mike?" Liz started her interrogation. "Just a minute," he interrupted and raced to stop Casey. "What is it?" she said, opening the belled door. "I'm sorry." "For what?" she asked. "Listen to one piece of advice. You may actually manage to juggle two women for the short term, Michael. But if you try to keep us both, you may eventually lose us both." Casey caressed his cheek. The gentle expression in her eyes added a deeper dimension to the vital face. Decision time. Liz's eyes froze to ice blue in her anger. He had expected tears.

Something about the runner looked familiar. Michael looked closer. "Casey!" he shouted. She looped toward him and jogged in place. "Hello, Michael." "Where have you been?" Her breathing came in even pants; damp circles soaked the front of her shirt. "Away." He had surmised as much, he had waited in vain outside her philosophy seminar for the past two weeks. "How are you?" "Too busy for pleasantries, I'm going to be late for class. I'll find you later." She turned and sprinted toward Patterson Field house. Michael followed; he had a few minutes before meeting his next tutoring student. In the empty half−lighted corridor, music −− some classical thing −− drew him toward the smaller exercise rooms. "One, and stretch −− farther. Ms. Armentrout? Be a swan, not a duckling," the instructor chastised. Michael peeked then stared through the open door into the dance theater. Seven women, dressed in leotards, legwarmers and sweatbands, contorted in the drab and shabby room like swaying flowers in a razed city lot. The brightly colored accessories personalized the basic black leotards. The six students lowered themselves in a split, lying first forward then circling slowly, arms stretched horizontal to the floor. "Young man, the gallery is above." The instructor's whip−like command sent him scurrying from the doorway. Michael found the stairs to the viewing gallery. Six agile and absolutely ethereal women gyrated, doing impossible things, each movement erotically charged. This show would sell tickets in any frat on campus. "Ms. Zurin, I assume from your evident distraction the visitor is your admirer. Mind your form, please." Michael hadn't noticed anything wrong in her form. He glanced at his watch. Shit, now he would be late. 29

Sparing a last glance at the dance troupe, he made a dash for the library. Another Knight, swamped in pre−calculus and needing patient direction or inspired analogy to light his bulb, awaited. The session went long, by the time he returned to the field house the halls were darkened. "Hey?" Michael called out as the maintenance man locked the theater's doors. "Class over?" "Nope, I'm just locking the girls in for safe keeping." The elderly man chuckled to himself. "Yeah, stupid question. What nights do they meet?" "Monday, Wednesday, Friday." He jiggled his heavy ring of keys. "I have more doors to lock, boy. With you on the other side of 'em." "Thanks. I'm going." Now he knew where to find her four times a week. Toad sat on the porch with a thick textbook and borrowed notes, chewing the end of a yellow highlighter. "Hey." "Hey." "Chem?" "Yep." "Good luck." "Yeah." Toad returned to the book. "The elf's in your room." "Huh?" "The elf. Black skirt, white shirt, and small tits, came to the party. She's in your room." "How'd she get in?" "She said she had a key." Toad shrugged. "I figured you gave her Liz's. Elf's your girl now, right?" "Maybe," Michael said. Elf, huh? Appropriate enough. A key? No. Michael opened the unlocked door. No sign of her, she must have gotten tired of waiting. He set his tutor guide down and peeled off his sweatshirt. "Mental note. Do laundry," he said aloud. "Or buy new clothes." He whirled about. "Up here." He looked up at the bed, her face only just visible in the shadows. "How'd you get up there?" "Like this." Slipping her head out, she grasped the bar and swung out, hanging momentarily. Drawing her knees up, she swung back in. "Is there a better way?" "No, that's it, but..." he paused, his mind ahead of his tongue for once. "But Liz and your other women never caught on?" "Other women?" he asked, laughing. "Only Liz and, well, you, kind of." "Kind of?" She cuddled down into the pillow. He liked how she looked there way too much. Grabbing his sweatshirt, he yanked it back over his head. His arms tangled in the sleeves. "Are we going somewhere?" she asked. He could hear the laughter in her voice as she watched him struggle with his shirt. "For a walk." "Certainly, if it's what you want to do." "You know what I want to do, so let's go for a walk." "We could do your laundry." "My laundry?" "Sure, something new and different." "New and different?" he repeated. "Michael, must you repeat everything I say?" He shoved the clothes into a gym bag and grabbed a roll of quarters. "I only wondered why doing laundry is new and different." "I take mine to the cleaner's." "You don't cook, you don't do laundry. What can you do, woman?" he said in mock severity. "Would you like to find out?" "Yeah, someday." He pushed her gently and firmly through the door. "How'd you get in?" 30

She blushed. "I picked the lock." "You can pick locks? That's an interesting skill." Casey laughed. "Think I should list it on my resume?" Toad's notes and books were abandoned on the porch. He and Butzie tossed a Frisbee around the science−building parking lot. Michael could see a couple of guys climbing the hill to the dining hall. "Look, Casey," he started. The laundry facility in the Student Center would be empty during dinner. "I think I've given the wrong impression." "You're not an intelligent over−achiever with a sexy smile and active hormones?" she said with the sideways glance. He sniggered. "Funny," he admitted. "I suppose, but I don't usually sleep around." "But for me, you'd make the exception?" she asked, but now half−serious, he thought. "I plead temporary insanity." "You don't want me?" "Stop twisting my words. What I mean is..." She waited, and they walked. "Tell me what you mean," she prompted. "I broke up with Liz," he said. "I am basically monogamous and want to get to know you." "Biblical sense or as in who and what I am?" "Both, but slowly. What happened between us at your car... God, I never even thought about where we were, only how much... Ah, damn. I can't even talk about it without losing it. I'm blown away by you." "Not yet, but you will be." The laundry was empty, and Casey was useless. Michael couldn't decide if she were being intentionally dumb, or if she actually were so mechanically inept. Finally, he got the two loads in and pulled over a couple of plastic chairs to guard his clothes. She acted mesmerized by the patterns formed by the soapsuds, water, and clothing sloshing behind the glass panels. "You really do take your clothes to the cleaner's, don't you?" She continued to watch the washer's foamy water ballet. "You take dance class, a philosophy course and drive a nice car. You're beautiful, dress in designer clothes you pay to have washed. You've lived in New York, Placid County, and places in between. You can't cook, but you love to eat. You dance like an angel −− or a harem slave depending on the music. You smell like vanilla ice cream, and never wear make−up," he summed up his knowledge of her. "You're smart, and athletic..." and kind of kinky, he added mentally. "Only kind of?" she laughed. "Okay. You also read minds." She gave him a puzzled look. "Don't play stupid, you've done it three times. The first two times I thought you were just good at body language, but this time for sure." He shivered −− weird stuff. She regarded him silently, a pensive frown creasing her forehead. "Confess. They say it's good for the soul," he joked. "If I have one." She sighed. "Very well. Yes. Sometimes I can hear your thoughts, like a whisper. I felt it the first time we met." He nodded. The bright lights of the laundry seemed out of place for the darkly strange topic. "Yeah, me too." Michael picked up his gym bag and a book tumbled out. Casey snatched it from the floor. "What are you reading?" "For a class, I've barely started it." "Flowers for Algernon." "A retarded man is offered a chance to take a new drug, which may increase his intelligence." "I've read it," she said, leafing through to his bookmark. "So, what do you think? Was it ethical for the scientists to experiment on Charlie?" "He consented, sure." "Was his consent informed? Could he grasp the risks, well enough to give such permission?" she asked. He felt the weight of her eyes; she took the oddest things seriously. 31

"They weren't out to hurt him." "Is harm the litmus?" Casey asked. "I guess it's a start." "Define harm. In general terms." She waited silently, giving no indication of impatience for his answer. "Injuring physically or mentally beyond whatever benefit is gained." "If the knowledge gained outweighs the harm inflicted, human experimentation is acceptable?" "Like trial drugs? Consent given. Yeah, I think so." Casey helped him move his clothes to a big dryer. "How about the mentally ill? They often are forced to take medication: to calm them, to balance their psyches −− to quiet the malicious voices of aliens and spy satellites." "It's for their own good. If they were sane, they'd probably agree." She placed her hands on the warm glass of the industrial sized dryer. "Joan of Arc spoke with her god, Bernadette experienced visitations from the mother of hers, and I hear your thoughts whispering in mine. Should we be medicated?" "Are you equating miracles of God with my horny imagination?" Casey turned to warm her backside. "Are you so certain the two are so different?" she asked. "Should we be medicated? Against our will?" "No. Now who's offering sophomoric arguments?" Casey wandered toward the bulletin board where Theta Chi party signs for October hung. She read the notices. "Is offering unlimited beer to neophytes not along the same lines? Get them drunk, hoping for casual sex?" "Everyone knows what goes on. They aren't dragged to the parties." "Okay, I'll grant you attending the party and voluntarily imbibing alcohol is arguably informed consent." Casey did a series of cartwheels, stopping in a split in front of him. Her grin required his. "I can be flexible on this point." Michael laughed. "So I see. Are you one of those ultra−feminist dyke gymnasts who see seduction as coercion?" "No, I'm not particularly homosexual. Nor am I a feminist, but I do think your fraternity parties are more like a rape−mill than you admit." "I don't know of any rapes." "No?" she asked. "Umm, perhaps I misunderstood your warning." "What warning?" "About Loser. I got the impression he spiked girls' drinks." "Oh." Loser's brother could get methaqualone. More than one girl had lost track of her inhibitions due to its covert use. "Oh? Informed consent? Or rape." "Well, they drink the beer willingly." His moral footing had turned treacherous with blinding speed. "And have some right to presume that's all they're drinking. Now, if he says, 'Honey, I've got something which will make sex incredible and I put it in your beer.' and she still drinks it, there's consent. Otherwise?" She shrugged. "Well, one unintended lover weighed against the greater good. Whom does it harm?" One if she were lucky, Michael thought. More than one train had Loser as its engineer. Were those the result of one of his special drinks? The dryer buzzed. "Great, fuckin' great," he murmured, stuffing the clothes into the gym bag. How many of the residents knew about this and, like him, had remained silent? "Damn it, Casey. Now what do I do?" "I don't know. Leave it for someone who cares, I suppose." Echoing his words, but this time with no laugh. "Finish the book, Michael. Tell me what you think of the issues." "Informed consent?" "And the other concepts of ethical treatment." The greasy smell wafting from the upstairs grill reminded him of his missed dinner. "Hungry?" "Here?" She sniffed. "All right, but I'll pay, since you did last time." "You are a women's libber, admit it. Soon you'll be opening doors for me." 32

"You live in a cheap place, eat at the cafeteria, and feud with your father. None of those things apply to me," she claimed. Supper would cost six bucks max, he thought. "Okay, you pay, but I open the doors." She wrinkled her nose at the buffet set−up, but didn't complain aloud. A tentative bite of the fried chicken brought a chagrined look to her face. "Better than I'd hoped." "You're kidding, this is good. They do good burgers, too." He dug in. "Admit it, you're a trust fund baby." "Trust fund baby?" "A rich kid, burdened with a huge trust fund at birth. Money doled out in chunks at each birthday, until you forget you ever wanted to have a career, or serve a purpose." "Do you hope I am?" "Nah, though I could wish for some of it for myself." "Why?" "Grad school. God, I'd love to go to Caltech or MIT." "So go." "On what? My sexy smile?" he said, shaking his head. "Need bucks. Ain't got 'em." "What will you do?" "Four years in the military will net me training and GI funds. Then I'll go to a smaller school, or use my military experience to land a GA position." "GA?" "Grad Assistant. Full professors hire grad students to substitute in class, mark papers, do research, answer mail. I'll get a chance to work with a team that will develop something or discover new technologies." In spite of her fussing Casey finished the chicken and fries, he noticed. "New technologies? Like what?" she asked, sipping her water. "Computer chips, miniaturization. With a laser, huge amounts of information can be stored on one small piece of coated plastic." "To what end?" She appeared to be listening. Liz had too, for a while, before changing the subject. "You've heard of the Bronze Age, the Stone Age, the Age of Reptiles?" he asked, waiting for her nod. "How about the Industrial Age, or the Age of Exploration?" Again she nodded, waiting for his next words. "How about an Information Age? Information is Knowledge and Knowledge is Power." Casey chimed in with him on the last phrase. "What will they do, think like a human?" "Maybe, maybe not. They will search huge amounts of data and perform complex mathematical functions far more quickly than a room of mathematicians." "Math," she stated. "Applies how to human advancement?" "You name it. Aerospace, transportation, industry." "Medicine?" "Sure, accurate storage of files. Create databases to catalogue symptoms and treatment of disease. I read somewhere the secret to genetics is a huge mathematical puzzle, too complex for our minds to unravel. Computers could simplify the model, or even map the sequences." Casey sat back in her chair and crossed her arms. Frown lines formed between her eyebrows. Not displeasure, Michael realized, intense concentration. A creepy feeling had his hair standing on end with a shiver. "You believe this?" "Completely. I'm positive the impact computers will have on our lives will be unimaginable but profound." "You've imagined it." "Yeah, I've too much imagination. Just ask my dad," he said, uncomfortable with her intensity. The walk back to the house took awhile. Casey pointed out an amazing number of constellations. She pointed out Venus, but he couldn't find it until she stood behind him and had him sight along her arm. "See it?" she breathed in his ear. "Just above the science building's weather tower?" 33

"Yes, slightly to the left." She nuzzled his neck. "Okay, I see it," he said, pulling away. "Coward," she teased. "You don't want to see the Goddess of Love in all her celestial glory?" "That's not what you were doing, at least not all you had in mind." "So you're a mind−reader too?" "I don't have to be psychic to know you were about to start nibbling on me again." "All this getting to know me stuff? Does it preclude some innocent play?" she asked, sidling closer. Michael drew her in with the strap of her shoulder bag. "Innocent, right. Really, Casey, I want to go slow." Casey pressed against him. "Okay. First, one slow kiss, and then another." "Shit." Michael kissed her −− a long slow kiss full of possibilities and promise. "You are bad." "Oh, very. If I'm bad enough will you hold it against me?" she replied, the clever innuendo bald in her tone. Laughing at her, he said. "Come on. I'll walk you to your car." "I ran to campus today, remember?" "Then I'll walk you home." "Yours or mine?" "Yours." "Oh. Okay, my car is at the field house." "You little liar." "Can you blame me for trying?" "Yes." "Oooo, cold." The little convertible was nowhere in sight. Michael threw up his hands and growled, "You left the keys in it again. Didn't you? It's stolen." She laughed. "No, I'm driving the Jeep." "You have a Fiat and a Jeep. I knew it, trust fund just oozes from you." "It's my brother's. We traded." "You traded, even up." "We have the same trust fund." She giggled. He opened the door for her. Sure enough the keys dangled from the ignition. "Your brother will hate if you let his Jeep get stolen." "My brother could never hate me, and it won't get stolen." "How do you know?" "He loves me, and I've never had a car stolen yet." "Yet." "In the mean time, I've never lost the keys. I think it's worth the risk." She climbed up on the seat and, burying her hands in his hair, pulled him near. "Now give me a proper good−night, and I'll leave you to your dreams. They'll be of me, you know." "Yeah, I know," he replied, ruefully aware of how little sleep he was likely to get if he dreamed of her. Her lips met his and with the tip of her tongue she traced them. The kiss got hotter and he discovered his hands had an agenda of their own. Touch and explore, move on without becoming too involved, he instructed firmly. Just giving a proper goodnight. She wrapped her legs around him, thankfully clad in jogging pants. He broke the kiss, holding her still and close. Her little sharp teeth found his neck. Damn, why did she do that? A heady feeling of arousal overtook him and he kissed her soft full lips, feeling his resolve slip further and faster in each flick of her clever tongue. He pulled away with difficulty, groaning, "Damn it Casey. Say stop when I get carried away." "Oh no, Michael. This particular torture is of your own design. Be sure I will do my best to subvert your will, every time." "You don't want to know me first?" "I already do." She hitched around in the seat and he pushed the door closed. As she drove away, Michael realized he 34

still didn't have her phone number. Well, he knew where to find her come Wednesday evening. He slept better than he'd thought he would, his dreams tender and cozy.

The program wouldn't run. Eighty hours of work and the damned thing wouldn't run. Somewhere in the tens of thousands of lines of code something had been screwed in wrong. He printed it out. Michael glanced at the time; he'd missed Casey's class again. He kept expecting her to show up, at the house, or the library. He had seen a black Jeep, but from a distance. The printer jammed with a ratcheting sound. Sighing, Michael ripped out the offending fold and picked out the scraps and shreds of the perforated edging. One insignificant little end would cause the stupid−possessed machine to jam again. He re−threaded the green and white lined paper, cancelled the old job and ordered a fresh print from scratch. The paper fed evenly, accordion folding neatly onto the rack. He leaned back into the uncomfortable metal chair. "Hi," she whispered in his ear. Michael jumped and felt her hands on his shoulders. Her thumbs dug into the knots and aches caused by too many hours pouring over the keyboard and the typewriter. "Were you thinking of me?" "Nope. Thinking of that damned printer. I swear it hates me." "Liar." "Okay, maybe a minute or so. How did you find me?" "Frog. He doesn't like me." "Toad. He doesn't like tall girls. He prefers short and sweet, plump and cute. You probably scare the hell out of him." "Do I frighten you?" "A little, but I like the rush." Her hands eased the muscles into relaxation. She moved her fingers to his temples, stroking away the headache he didn't know he had. Soft but firm, following the contours of his face, chin and jaw, cheekbones and forehead. Resting his head on her ribcage, eyes closed. Warm hands, on a gentle search and rescue mission, finding the exact spot, probing and working to destroy the discomfort. Fingernails raked lightly over his scalp, lifting his longish hair from his ears, combing back from his face. Finishing with a smoothing motion so slight as to only stir the small hairs of his skin in their passing. Casey wrapped her arms around his shoulders and neck; he could feel the weight of her head as she rested it on the top of his. "Wow. Thanks." He kissed the hand closest to his face. He could hear the smile in her voice. "You're quite welcome." Grasping her elbow, he pulled her into his lap. Her eyes, bright with the shimmer of gold reflecting the glow of the monitor, caught his. Drawing him, an elf's quixotic eyes with the power of magical incantation, somehow wise, somehow sad in their measuring regard. Dark lashes, high arching brows lent an air of amused delight to the symmetry of her slightly triangular face. Tiny studs through her ears flashed brilliantly as he tilted her small chin. Wide mouth, shaped like a smile even in repose. A mouth to laugh, lips to kiss. Michael applied what he called his thinking man's kiss −− light and coaxing, deepening into generous and demanding. Casey closed her eyes, and accepted the tribute. "Wow. Thanks," she breathed when he finished. Michael laughed. "You're quite welcome," he said, completing the joke. The clattering printer spat out a final sheet. He reluctantly set Casey on her feet, and form fed the printer to a clean sheet. "Gibberish," she commented. "Code. It's supposed to alphabetize student files. It doesn't." "Now what?" "I read it through and find the error." "You find this interesting?" "Mostly frustrating, but a trip when the program finally runs." He gathered the printout, folding it carefully to fit in his duffel bag. He spied a typed paper in one corner and pulled it out. 35

"Here's what I hope for it to do." Casey skimmed the project summary. "If you succeed then 'any number of functions can be performed'. To what end?" "Say the Dean wants the names of all students from Lucerne County, the data would be available in a couple hours, with minimal clerical time." "Why would he want that?" He sighed. "I have no idea. Maybe to find out if the high schools there are boycotting Placid." "Why would they?" "Casey!" he said in exasperation. "It's hypothetical." She rooted through the contents of the duffel bag, triumphantly retrieving a notebook labeled Modern Authors. "Knowing the answers to irrelevant questions is pointless. Even hypothetically." She flipped through the notebook. "Is this your report on Flowers for Algernon?" Michael grabbed the notebook. "I'm not finished. You can read it when I'm done." Stuffing the notebook and the printout into the bag, he zipped it shut. He tucked it under his arm and ushered Casey toward the door. "So is that another New York costume?" She wore a loose white jacket with a wide tied belt. A bright red and black patch adorned one sleeve. The shapeless trousers were made of the same heavy tightly woven fabric. Her sockless feet were jammed into black canvas slip−ons. "This is a gi. My karate club has a match tonight." She waited for him to kick the shim from beneath the door and jiggle the knob to check the lock. "I thought you might like to be my cheering section." "Karate −− like Kung Fu, Bruce Lee?" Michael asked. "Karate, like martial arts," she corrected. "You punch with fists like lightning?" he adopted a deep theatrical bass. "You have learned much, grasshopper." Her puzzled look made him snicker. "You don't watch much TV." "No. So do you want to come?" "Sure." Michael had a few preconceived notions about karate. Watching the preliminary match between two preschoolers dispelled most of them. Padded helmets, mouth guards, punching gloves and groin protection added an air of an actual sport to the contest. The winner seemed to be the one with three clear hits unanswered. Bowing to opponents and instructors preceded and ended each match. The third match had been forfeited; the opposing club didn't have a combatant for the level. The preteen girl performed a third level kata. Michael thought the series of precisely executed kicks, punches and blocking moves resembled an exceedingly intricate dance routine. One young man, upon losing, threw his helmet down. His coach uttered a single harsh sounding noise, something like 'keyha'. Instantly contrite, the student picked up his discarded helmet and bowed to his opponent and his coach. The rounds became increasingly physical with the higher level of expertise. Casey faced a broad−shouldered, muscular man −− one of the junior instructors of the other team. Bowing low, the two began to circle. Faster jabs followed a few tentative ones. Casey dodged a hip kick and succeeded in scoring a point with a level blow to the man's chest. Jumping back, then dancing from foot to foot, her opponent looked for an opening. A feign and quick sweep kick tripped her, but she rolled away before his following move could score a point. Strike, block, dodge, and feint. Each gained a point in an exchange of maneuvers. Another series of double kicks, blocks and blows gave each another point, neither commanding a clear advantage. The next kick caught Casey's flank. Attempting to offset the awarded point, Casey jumped forward to throw a low sideways blow to the man's undefended midriff. Twisting and kicking as he turned, the opponent's foot caught Casey full in the face. She fell with a thud and didn't roll. Michael dashed onto the mat and reached her just as her instructor did. Her opponent knelt beside her and had already removed her helmet. "Oh God. Be okay, be okay, be okay." The gi−clad man uttered the words like a mantra. Blood poured from her nose; the kick had landed squarely on its bridge by dumb luck. She sniffed and 36

raised her hand to wipe her face. "I'm okay. I concede this match." She tossed a bleary grin at her sincerely horrified competitor. "Next time, Jeff, I'll duck quicker and wear a full face guard." Michael and the continually apologizing Jeff helped Casey to her feet. All the spectators clapped, relieved no greater harm had befallen her. Holding a handful of tissues to her nose, Casey bowed to her worthy adversary and her honored sensei, who excused her. The fresh cool air outside the field house contrasted sharply with the dense rich atmosphere of the competition studio. "Let's get some ice on it," Michael suggested. "Drive me home, my head hurts." She clambered into the passenger seat of the Jeep. "You're going to shine tomorrow," he warned, noticing reddened blotches spreading beneath her eyes. He found the keys in the ignition and the engine roared into rumbling life. "Which way?" "River Park, 205C," she answered, sounding stuffy. Casey laid her head back on the seat. The apartment complex stood at the other side of the valley from the campus, overlooking a wide spot in the Placid River. In addition to college professors and administrators, the complex provided housing for many of the younger professionals who worked in Placid, or the surrounding communities of Brookville and Canton. The gate guard recognized Casey's truck and raised the gate. Directed to C building by small signs, Michael parked in one of the two spaces designated for 205. Nice landscaping, Michael noticed, with freshly turned mulch in the curving low beds bordering each sidewalk. The last of the summer's flowers had been removed as they withered. Only a few dry leaves from the many mature trees littered the pristine lawns, indicating recent and meticulous raking of each expanse. Climbing from the Jeep's leather seat, he grabbed the keys from the ignition. Opening the passenger door carefully, he patted Casey's shoulder gently. Casey appeared pale in the diffuse glow of the lot's elegantly globed lampposts. "We're here, sleeping bloody." Casey roused from her slumber and stretched. Wiping away a fresh trickle of blood, she grimaced. "Hurt?" "Not so much now." She slid from the vehicle and leaned against his chest a moment, her dizziness evident. Maybe she should see a doctor? Concussion, neck fracture, he'd heard head injuries could be more serious than they appeared. She rolled her head from side to side, "No, I'm all right. I was too keyed up and now the adrenaline is gone. Tired and hungry." Casey started toward the door, asking, "Coming in?" Reaching in the back of the Jeep, Michael grabbed his duffel and the shoulder bag Casey carried. The apartment door hung open and Michael could hear water running from somewhere. Casey poked her head into the hallway. "I'm going to bathe. Call for pizza or something, I'm starved." He could hear the unmistakable sound of a shower, the splashing of water from a tap altering to a swoosh. Michael took a slow look around, then again. No phone, but she had said 'Call for pizza', so there had to be one. He searched the kitchen, then the bedrooms. Still he found no phone. Thinking to just scrounge a meal of odds and ends, Michael went back to the kitchen. A search of the refrigerator yielded half a bottle of wine, part of a block of cream cheese, and a soft tomato. An onion and a box of herbal tea sat in an otherwise empty cupboard. The other cabinets held a few dishes of various functions and a couple of fluted glasses. He mangled the tomato and onion with the sharpest knife in Casey's limited selection and stirred it into the cream cheese. The freezer had two full ice trays; she'd need some for her face. Not finding a plastic bag, he cracked some onto a dishcloth and refilled the trays. He needed something on which to spread his concoction. Two doors down his knocking finally rousted a resident, who opened the door to the limit of the chain bolt. "Yes?" "Sorry to bother you. Do you have any crackers I could borrow?" The face turned quizzical and the middle−aged woman asked, "Do you live here?" 37

"I'm visiting in 205." "Wait here." Michael could hear an exchange of voices behind the door. "He's visiting 205. He wants crackers." "So?" "She's lived there for two months, not talking to anyone and, suddenly, she sends a stranger to borrow crackers?" "Oh for God's sake, Hermona. Give the boy some crackers." The sound of receding footsteps reached him, and their return. A moment later the door opened and an unopened sleeve of saltines slipped through the limited opening. "Thanks." "Anytime." Michael muffled his laughter until he reached the end of the walk. "Oh for God's sake, Hermona. Give the boy some crackers." Even the most normal of people could be so bizarre. All it took was a stranger asking for crackers. Still smirking, Michael let himself back into 205. He could hear the sound of a drawer being pulled and closed. Slipping the saltines on to a plate, he admired his handiwork. Candles, wine and a Hershey's bar from his duffel rounded out the table's decor. He filled the copper teakettle and turned on the burner. "What's this?" Casey asked from behind him. She wore a simple cotton cover−up. Pale yellow cloth draped down from a scoop neck to past her knees. The color emphasized her skin's warm color. Her dark hair had been finger−combed and laid in still damp curls on her forehead and neck. Dusky circles adorned both eyes and the bridge of her nose appeared slightly puffy. "Sit," he directed, then picked up the ice and held it gently against her forehead. The ice in the dishtowel had melted slightly. He caught the trickle running down her cheek. Eyes closed, she leaned her cheek on his stomach. Michael stroked her forehead, feeling a bit protective. He had known her less than two months −− actually less with all the gaps. The emotions she stirred in him were so different from the ones Liz had generated. Liz inspired a warm affectionate desire, satisfying and comfortable, like a carousel. The utterly insatiable passion he experienced in Casey's arms felt like a roller coaster in comparison. Caused by the new and exotic or the woman herself? Liz feigned polite interest in computers and mathematics, Casey asked questions, sometimes naive ones but always with an honest curiosity. Liz had a mercurial temperament, loving and happy one moment, as frigid and frosty as February in the next, then on to mad as hell, often for no discernible reason. He had gotten the hang of the moods and could usually distract her with a joke or a change of topic. Casey appeared amenable and unruffled, mature beyond her years. The whirlwind beginning of this relationship was contrary to his established patterns. He had drifted into exclusivity with Liz. One previous girlfriend then another, citing his evident indifference a primary motivation, had broken off with him. These break−ups hadn't affected him deeply because the bitter observations had been fairly astute. He had lost interest but remained willing to let things ride, avoiding confrontation. Something had changed in this chance meeting with Casey. Her shivering focused Michael's thoughts in the present. A cold rivulet trickled down her neck. He removed the ice pack, and saw the swelling had subsided. "Doesn't look too bad. Hurt?" She shook her head and indicated the table. "No pizza?" Michael laughed. "I couldn't find your phone. So I emptied your cupboards and refrigerator." The teakettle whistled and he returned to the kitchen. Dumping the ice in the sink, Michael poured cups of hot water and dropped in the tea bags. Maneuvering carefully, he told Casey of foraging at the neighbors for crackers. "I'm glad you did, this is quite nice." Spread on the crackers, the cream cheese mixture resembled some sort of meal. The chocolate made a fine dessert. Michael noticed a wince of pain when Casey bumped her 38

nose with the rim of the cup. "Did you take some aspirin?" he asked. "No, aspirin won't help. I have to grin and bear it." "My poor bruised elf," he commiserated, splitting the last of the wine between their glasses. She quaffed the final drops. "I'm an elf?" "Toad thinks so," he admitted, collecting the few dishes to return to her pitifully bare kitchen. He added hot water and detergent to the sink. He waved her away and rinsed the dishes, letting them air dry on a cloth. She had settled herself on the sofa, dragging a comforter from the back in which to cuddle, pulled up around her neck, hands curled at her cheeks. He dried his hands and, with a fair hook, shot sunk the damp towel in the corner beside the refrigerator. "Two points!" he whispered. "Hmmm?" she murmured. "Talking to myself," Michael said, toeing off his sneakers and collapsing on the opposite end of the sofa. "Why karate?" She stretched and yawned hugely, snuggling further down. She extended her legs to rest her feet on his knee. He tickled the bottom of one. "Am I still talking to myself? Defense? Or simply the pleasure of getting the snot kicked out of you?" With a broad smile, she replied, "Yes." Grabbing one ankle, he poised his hand, threatening a severe tickling if she didn't answer. "Okay, you sadist. Let go," she demanded. She tucked her feet safely beneath her as he complied. "Karate's entire concept is one of control and discipline." "As a sadist, I find talk of control titillating," he interrupted, grinning at his own cleverness. Sighing with mock exasperation she went on, "Physical and mental preparedness. I've learned focus, and balance." "I would have thought your dance class ample instruction and practice for balance." "Yes," Casey allowed. "I rarely have the pleasure of getting the snot kicked out of me in dance class." They both laughed. "Karate, philosophy, and dance. What other classes to you take?" "Karate is a club, not a class," she corrected. "None." "What kind of major is that?" he asked in disbelief. She shrugged, "No kind. I came here for the Ethics seminars." "But..." Michael began, interrupted by the unmistakable sound of a phone ringing. Casey reached out and flipped open the wooden cigar−box sized chest beside her. She shot an amused smile at his look of chagrin. "Hello?" Michael listened to her side of the conversation with polite disinterest, catching a word or name despite not speaking the language. "Bon soir, Claude. Je suis bien, et vous? Grand−mère? " Suddenly she sat upright and planted both feet in the pile of the carpet. "Que? Oh, Mon Dieu! Cela est terrible! Et Miranda? Est−ce qu'elle est bonne? " Allowing the blanket to slide unheeded to the floor, Casey wandered, tethered by the phone cord to a radius of a few feet. She listened more than spoke, adding only a word or phrase in query, twisting the cord around her fingers in ever increasing knots. "Vous remercier pour téléphoner, l'oncle. Bonne nuit." She replaced the receiver and stared at the phone for a long moment before shutting the lid. Rubbing her forehead, Casey seemed completely unaware of anything but the contents of the short conversation. "Something wrong?" Michael asked, hesitant to break the silence. At the sound of his words she jumped as if startled by his voice. She looked at him a long minute, dark eyes brimming, and her normally generous mouth in a tight line. "Yes, very." Her chin began to tremble and the probability of tears became a certainty. "I will be poor company this evening, sir. Forgive me." Casey fled from the room down the short hall to the bedroom. Sir? Michael followed. In the darkened room, he could hear the unmistakable hitching breaths of Casey crying. She hunched next to the bed, head on knees, arms wrapped tightly around her legs. 39

A death in her family? It had to be. No other explanation filled the criteria. "Who died?" he asked, sitting down beside her. His question initiated a renewed spate of tears. She accepted the comfort of his hug willingly, shifting her balance to lean on him. "Not your brother?" "Oh God, no!" she whimpered. She cried a few more minutes. Her tears gradually slowed, only an occasional sniff betrayed her continued state. "A cousin. In a coma. He's not expected to recover." "Who's Claude?" he asked. Casey wiped her eyes. "Claude?" She sighed. "It's complicated. A sort of uncle. Roget's guardian." "Is Miranda his mother?" "No, his twin. Teresa is their mother. My mother's youngest half−sibling," she explained. "Miranda and Roget are... This will be difficult for her." Michael had heard twins were often exceptionally close. Though Laura drove him crazy, and there had been times he could have cheerfully strangled her, he couldn't imagine growing up without her. Casey scrambled up onto the bed, slipping beneath the comforter with a sigh. "I love my bed," she murmured beneath her breath, before telling him, "Stay, or take the truck back to campus. I'm going to sleep now, Michael." She shut her eyes, giving every impression of doing just that. "Do you want me to stay or go?" he asked, brushing back her hair. Without opening her eyes, in an almost conversational tone, she replied, "I want you to stay. I want to fall asleep with the sweat of your passion drying on my skin. I want your arms around me as I slumber. If I awaken from bad dreams, I want to hear the sound of your breathing beside me. I want you to be the first thing I see each morning. If the world should end tonight, I want to die together. There is no moment of the day I don't long for your company. Why would my nights be any different?" She captured his hand beneath her cheek, against her shoulder, kissing his forearm. "Oh." Great answer, he thought, but her response had been more dramatic and emotionally charged than he'd expected. "If my honesty discomforts you, too bad. Deal with it." She snuggled deeper into the bedding, releasing his hand in the process. Her breathing, rhythmic and regular, served as a metronome to his thoughts. Examining her flagrantly expressed desires, he found a similar longing in his imagination. The sheets were soft and smelled like her. His arms found their way around her warmth, the arc of her back fitting like a puzzle piece in the curve of his torso. Nice to cuddle, the back of her neck bared to his lips, no long strands of hair to maneuver around or in which to become entangled. Sleep came quickly and, in the morning's light, the strange dreams fell away, forgotten.

"Coming Saturday?" he asked in a whisper. Casey had curled up in a vinyl−covered chair, next to the study cubicle, reading as she usually did when he studied at the library. "What's Saturday?" "Party." "Oh." She sighed. "Do you want me there?" He nodded. She gave a small shrug and half a nod, which he took as yes. She closed the book, stretching her limbs and body. He admired her figure, visually caressing her curves. The smug look on her face when his eyes finally reached hers told him the procedure had been prolonged for his amusement. Tsking, he turned back to his books. She tapped his arm. "I've gotta run. I'll see you Saturday." She kissed him swiftly but with the accustomed attention to detail. "Bye." Strolling toward the stairs, she commanded the gaze of nearly every male in eyeballing distance. Perhaps it was the way she walked, he mused, not with any overtly provocative behavior, but simply comfortable in her skin with sort of dancer's grace. Before disappearing, Casey looked back over her shoulder at Michael. He realized with amazed pride, though every man had been compelled to watch her, his were the eyes she'd wanted.

40

The Fiat stood in the parking slot for 205. She must have traded again. Michael tried the doorknob, unlocked as usual. Casey had asked for a first read of his Modern Authors book critique. Since finishing several nights prior, he'd carried his copy around to give to her, but she hadn't shown up at any of her usual moments. "Casey?" he called. Listening, he could hear the sound of the shower. The bathroom fan had failed to clear the steam, which filled the room with a spice−scented vapor. He'd liked the vanilla cream fragrance but this one seemed even more exotic, sending pictures of desert isles and foreign shores through his head. He thought about joining her and slipped off his shirt. "Casey?" he called again, not wanting to startle her. "Need someone to wash your back?" The curtain swept open and a stranger looked out. Green eyes raked Michael from head to toe, and a smile formed on the man's face. Michael took several steps backward. "Wrong sibling. I'm Val. I suppose the offer to wash my back no longer applies?" The curtain rattled closed again. Michael grabbed his shirt from the floor. "Hey, listen for the pizza man. Okay?" Almost in response to the statement, Michael heard a knock. He tugged on his shirt while opening the door. A teenager stood outside, holding a pizza box and a slip of paper. "Large cheese with pepperoni? Eight−fifty." Casey's brother strolled out wearing a towel around his waist, using another to dry his hair. The delivery boy looked from one occupant to the other, his impression of the situation plain in his moon−shaped face. "Great. Sex makes me hungry." Val opened the box, grabbed a slice and took a huge bite. "Help yourself," he said, finishing the slice in two more gulps. "Pay the man, sport. Money's on the table. I'll be right back." With a suggestive wink, Val disappeared down the hallway. Blushing furiously, Michael found a wad of cash in a money clip on the table. He paid for the food and gave a generous tip. Placing the box on the kitchen counter, he sat down to slip his shoes back on. He wasn't sure what game Val had been about, but knew he didn't want to play. "Going somewhere?" Glancing up from his laces, Michael saw Val tuck in his shirt and zip his worn−looking jeans. "You did that on purpose. He thinks we're..." Retreating into silence, Michael finished tying his sneakers. "Gay lovers," Val supplied. "Lighten up. Why do you care what some moron thinks?" he asked. "I just played along. Gave him an adventure to relate to his pals." "Fine. No problem." Michael grabbed his duffel bag but Val intercepted him at the door. "I'm leaving." He placed his hand on the doorknob and paused, waiting for the taller man to move. Val leaned on the door and sighed. "I'm sorry, bad joke." Michael found the resemblance to Casey for which he'd been unconsciously looking; the wide mouth with the smile−shaped lips and the straight, classically chiseled nose. The same warm skin tone hinted of the tropics, and the slightly tilted eyes with arched brows. There was also the same self−confident ease, of complete comfort. "Apology accepted. Now move, please." Michael kept his hand on the doorknob, waiting. Val stepped aside. "Don't suppose we could start over?" Michael pulled the door shut. Halfway down the walk, he stopped. Casey adored her brother. Did he really want to have Val dislike him? He paced in the parking lot before coming to a decision. Knocking, he heard Val call, "Come in," and opened the door, the wrought iron 205 rattling slightly. Val looked up from the sofa and grinned. "Hi! I'm Val. You must be Michael. Casey's talked about you." Michael kicked off his sneakers. "Yeah. Pleased to meet ya." He fell into the chair and put his feet on the coffee table. "Where is she?" "Away. Want a beer?" There were two opened beers, one half empty, on the table. Val shrugged as Michael's gaze shifted from the bottles to his face. "I figured you'd be back. How about some pizza?" The box lay open on the sofa; Michael took a slice and grabbed the offered beer. The cheese had cooled, but the sauce steamed as he took a bite. "How did you know?" he asked between chewing. "When's she coming back?" Two pronged conversations seemed to run in the family. "Sometime tonight," Val replied. "I saw you outside. You appeared undecided." Undecided was a good description. "So why are you here?" Michael saw a quick hint of annoyance −− a 41

tightening around the eyes and jaw, a twitch of the nostrils, a crinkle across the handsome brow. The twinge passed as swiftly as it came. "Do I need a reason to visit my sister?" The words were spoken with a possessive intonation. Val emptied his beer. "Want another?" Michael nodded. "I wondered if you came to get your truck?" Val answered from the kitchen. "Not necessarily." He returned with two more brews and a bag of chips. He tossed the chips on the table in front of Michael. "Or maybe to bring her groceries?" Michael asked. Val laughed. "More likely." He took a long swig of beer and glanced at his watch, an expensive looking silvery one with a leather band. "Okay, besides visiting because I wanted to see Casey, I also came because she needs a new passport photo." "You're a photographer?" Several times, Michael had admired the gallery of photos on one wall of the living room. "Are those yours?" The photographs, mostly black and white, showed faces and forms of a variety of people; an elderly woman with a cat in her lap, a young girl with a smudge of dirt on her cheek holding a basket of flowers, a diapered baby and a large, scruffy dog napping on a ragged bit of quilt, a young couple embracing in the fog, silhouetted by the glow of a street lamp. Michael struggled to identify the connection that he clearly felt between them. "Are they family?" Val hesitated before answering, "The family of man, maybe." He gestured. "Come here." Michael followed him to the smaller bedroom, ill at ease. Several cameras were scattered on the bed, another stood on tripod in front of a large sheet backdrop. "Stand there." Val indicated a taped X on the carpet. "Don't smile." "Why?" "Cuz you're not supposed to smile for a passport." "I don't need a passport," Michael claimed, but did as he had been instructed. Val smiled above the strange camera. "Well, one never knows, does one?" He snapped the shot, then another. "There," Val said, turning to pick up a different camera. "Let me take your picture." He glanced sideways at him, another similarity to his sister in that averted look. "You just did." "Nah, that's mundane shit. How about one for Casey's wall?" Val pointed to a stool. "Sit there," he ordered, unscrewing the lens, substituting another. "Come on, she'll love it." Michael complied, more uncomfortable than before. "Okay, what do I do?" Val's smile didn't console him and his reply set him on edge. "Exactly what I tell you." A few shots later, Val straightened with an exasperated sigh. "I need another beer." He stalked from the makeshift studio. Michael chuckled. Val had found out what Michael already knew, he was not photogenic. Val returned from the kitchen with two bottles. "Take off your shirt." He handed over the beer and physically positioned his reluctant subject turned slightly away from the camera. "Straighten, and tilt this shoulder forward." It felt strange to be pushed and prodded so familiarly and when Val kissed his neck, Michael jerked away. A blazing embarrassment crept into his cheeks. He could feel the heat rise over his chest and neck, before settling on his face. "I'm not gay," he stated bluntly. Val laughed softly, Michael heard the shutter click. "Neither am I, particularly. I just wanted something for the camera to see." Michael took a draught from the beer, swallowing anger with the potable. Asshole. The camera clicked again. "Now there's something," Val continued. "Face me, cross your arms, put the beer between your legs." Michael sighed and obeyed. Val frowned, toyed with the knobs on the camera, then focused on his subject. "So have you fucked my sister yet?" In the second between the unexpected question and his furious non−response, the camera clicked several times. 42

"She any good?" Michael bolted, stomping from the room. Val followed, camera in hand, taking more pictures of him. "Stop it," Michael said. Val hung the camera from the spindle of a chair then, sitting in it backwards, he crossed his arms and rested his chin on them. "You take better pictures when you're angry," Val explained coolly. "Calm, you're a lump." Michael glared at him. "So I'm not photogenic. Why would you ask about that?" Val shook his head, "Untrue, the camera loves you when you're angry, or embarrassed." He patted the one hanging next to him. "These are good. Wait. Please." Michael snorted, but waited at Val's request. Val returned with a leather binder. "Really! I know at least two are as good as these." He handed the folder to Michael. "Look, at least, before condemning my methods." Silent curiosity forced him to open the binder. Each photograph had been matted in a light gray poster board, the flat black of the back piece creating a hairline border around each. The first few were of a dark haired woman against white or black background, wearing the same or opposite colors. The woman's face never looked directly at the lens, but her dark−colored eyes commanded each pose. In one a pure−white dog had been used as a drape. The woman sat on the flat black floor; the dog's head on her lap, her head tilted back, hair streaming over one bared shoulder, the curve of one breast visible. Her arms and hair and the dog's fur were all she wore. "Who is she?" Michael asked. Val glanced over his shoulder. "Our mother." Michael looked at the picture in disbelief. "Hot, huh? I took it for her newest lover," Val added. "Max was his dog." Mothers in Michael's circle tended to look a bit more dignified. He couldn't picture his mother posing for a photo in her birthday suit. In fact, the idea revolted him. The next series portrayed two children. Michael decided these were family portraits. In the first shot they were cheek to cheek. Their little chins rested on their forearms, hands intertwined. The girl was a curly haired, green−eyed Orphan Annie. The boy's hair, somewhat shorter but just as tangled matched the titan hue of his sister's, but his eyes were light brown. The poses were playful. In his favorite the two kids had been buried in a pile of multi−colored leaves −− the gold, brown, yellow, and coppery tones complimenting the coloring of the siblings. The photo captured the crispness of the leaves; the crackling was almost audible as the subjects sprung from hiding. Bunches of fall mums were clutched in delicate fingers. A still life followed. Apples of every variety lay strewn on a rough wooden table. The foreground seemed bathed in bright golden light, the apples shimmering where a few drops of water clung to an occasional globe. In the far corner, obscured by the shadows, a pair of hands wielded an oddly menacing paring knife. A single curl of peel hung from the fruit held by the graceful fingers. A small drop of blood welled up from one knuckle, mimicking the shape and color of the harvest. Further in shadows a barely discernible face floated in the darkness. The tear poised on one cheekbone like a crystal, caught his attention. Like the dew on the apples, it glimmered. Michael turned the page. Casey. The picture featured only her face and shoulders. The color had been bleached out, leaving a silver cast to her skin. Lying on a pale gray background, her hair had been arranged in a web around her. Long and silver blond, instead of short, dark and curly. Her averted face looked softly reposed. Her brown eyes, half closed, had been transformed into a pale gold. The only vibrant color in the photo rested in her moist slightly parted lips. They had been stained a deep red, which matched the rose bud lying in the hollow of her neck. Reluctantly, he turned the page. Almost the same pose from further away, with more color left in −− Casey's right arm bent, so her hand rested palm up near her face, the other held the rose stem on her hip. The bud itself nestled in the v−shaped area between her thighs on a white sheet of silk draped strategically over her nude body. The stark redness of her lips and the rose at her groin seemed to dominate the picture, giving it a deeply disturbing essence. Not pornographic, he thought, but with that common thread of sensuality. Even the children's portraits had a touchy−feely current. Glancing at the gallery on the wall, he caught the same thread there. The common element was the photographer's singular talent of capturing each in a moment of emotional response to a tactile stimulus. A 43

solitary emotion painted in each face like a catalogue of the human condition. Val collected feelings like stamps −− happiness, pain, love, and subsets of each, adding now his anger. Michael raised his eyes, to find Val watching him intently. "So, what did you say to Casey to get this look?" he asked. Val checked his watch again. "Nothing." He reached for the folder. "The camera loves her and Janessa. My mother," he added when Michael looked puzzled at the unfamiliar name. "I don't think I could ever take a bad picture of either of them." He slipped the folder back into the binder. "Maybe someday I'll get a picture of them together." He switched on the television. "When did Casey get a TV?" Michael asked. Val laughed, choosing a channel on the cable tuner. "She didn't. Casey considers television mindless pap. She reads." "I know." Val picked up the bag of chips and settled onto the sofa. "Now me? I like a bit of mindless entertainment once in a while." He glanced over at his guest who still wasn't certain whether to stay or leave. "Hey, get me a beer when you get another." When Michael returned with the beers, Val took one wordlessly. He had chosen an adult channel; light on story, heavy on moans. They watched the movie with no conversation. During a clothed scene, Casey's brother left the room, returning with a baggie. He filled a pipe and lit the contents. Inhaling deeply, he passed the bowl to Michael. The grass burned evenly, no popping of seeds, or sudden flaring of stems. The smoke filled his lungs smoothly, the usual throat wracking cough missing. Almost immediately the hyper−aware, floaty feeling invaded his senses. Nice. A second hit confirmed his opinion. The movie or another interchangeable one enthralled him. "Hey, space boy. Let's go." With a bemused sort of surprise, Michael registered Val had changed clothes. "Where?" he said, the sound of his words echoing in his ears. Val grinned. "Where the beers are cold and the women are hot." Michael snorted, "Beer okay, but I want Casey." The other's grin vanished. "Don't we all? Okay −− beer for you, girls for me." He patted his front jean pocket. "Pot for us both." The cold air anchored him somewhat. The Fiat started with a roar and Val suggested fastening his seatbelt. "Why?" Michael asked, compliant but curious. "Cuz I drive fast." As soon as the little car turned onto the two−lane highway, he proved it. Somewhere in the dim recesses of his mind it occurred to Michael to be afraid but Val drove confidently and without incident. The Bakerwood Inn sat along a side road, the turnpike just visible from the parking lot. Michael had never been inside though he'd seen it on each trip back home. The dive had a reputation for its rough clientele. "Are you sure about this?" he asked. "A tough crowd." "Scared?" Val challenged, eyes flashing with excitement. Adrenaline junkie. "Yeah," Michael admitted. "Me too." Val pulled out the pipe and, placing a small amount of green in the bottom, lit it. Drawing a full breath, he handed it to Michael. Knowing how stupid it would be to walk into this place stoned, he sucked in a lungful, coughing a little in the brisk air. "Thus fortified with Dutch courage, our hero, Captain Mellow bravely plunged into the den of cut−throats," Val intoned. "Followed closely by his loyal sidekick, Space Boy." Sharing the joke, they both laughed until their eyes watered. The sign on the door proclaimed that occupancy of greater than 150 people violated Placid County fire laws. The haphazardly constructed building held several times the stated figure. Val leaned close to Michael's ear and said in a voice just loud enough not to carry. "I guess we're the only 44

ones who can read." Michael cracked up, drawing the attention of nearby patrons, who glared at the unwelcome strangers coldly. Val half−pushed Michael toward the other end of the bar where he waved a twenty to catch the eye of one of the bartenders. An over−weight woman with bleach−blond hair and a number of extra chins brought a pair of green pony bottles and pocketed the twenty. Val winked at her and a faint smile flittered on her chapped lips. She dug a ten out of the apron pocket and laid it on the ring−stained counter. "Expensive beer," Michael commented. "Nah, I just leave big tips," he replied, eyeballing the room. Michael guffawed. "Admit it, she took you." "Nope, she and I just negotiated a deal. Watch." Val raised the ten and tapped his nearly empty bottle. The woman brought another pair of beers and left the correct change. "Come on." Val led to the edge of the dance floor. The women dressed differently than college girls. Jeans worn tighter, sweaters stretched further, more buttons left undone. Even so, none approached Casey's appeal or Liz's prettiness. Val scoped the crowd, finally nudging Michael with his elbow. "There she is." Michael followed Val's gaze. A gray−eyed blonde swayed at the other edge of the parquet square. Shapely, trim waist, ample tits, and curvy hips, the woman would have been welcome at the Chi parties. Dressed in a white jean−skirt and boots with a red handkerchief blouse, she was a keeper. "You know her?" Michael asked. "Not yet." Val said, grinning. "But, if you'll hold my beer, very soon." Michael watched; beer for him, girls for Val. Weaving his way through the couples, Val stopped in front of the buxom blonde. He bowed to the woman who blushed and looked away momentarily, but her eyes kept coming back. Finally she nodded to him and took the proffered hand. Val whispered in her ear throughout the entire song, Michael could see her smile and nod. The song ended, and Val brought the girl over to where Michael waited. "Chrissy, this is Michael. Guard her virtue while I get her a drink." "He's funny," she said. Her voice sing−songed like a little girl's. Not bright, but very pretty. "Yep, Val's funny." "How long you been friends?" she asked. "About three hours. Actually he's my girlfriend's brother." "Girlfriend, huh? How about him? Hitched?" Michael shrugged. How could he explain that until a few minutes ago he had Val pegged as homosexual −− and still wasn't convinced otherwise? "I don't think so." "Good. Married guys suck." Val returned with two beers and a rum and coke. The trio negotiated a path to the other side where a wide ledge to set drinks on ran the length of the wall. Chrissy didn't appear to object to Val's too−familiar hands caressing her. Michael sipped the beer and tried to ignore the seduction beside him. He saw Val pat his pocket and gesture to the front door. Chrissy shook her head and crooked a finger at him. Grabbing Michael's arm, Val followed her to the ladies' room. She locked the door behind them and scooted up onto the counter between the sinks, waiting for Val to fill his pipe. The smoke made the rounds and again. Michael began to feel the same strange enchantment but this time, in lieu of the television, fixated on Val kissing Chrissy. The woman sought out his eyes from time to time. She, at least, hadn't forgotten they performed for an audience. Stoned altogether, he thought, giving up on keeping the bowl lit. A swig of beer didn't help the dry mouth, but did quiet the cough that threatened to cut loose. Chrissy had great tits and by some alchemy he could feel them through Val's hands. The woman scent of her excitement stirred a like response, and he imagined himself between her peach thighs. Michael leaned against the door, listening to the changing music behind him and the murmured encouragements before him. The bass of the speakers matched the rhythm of orgasm between Chrissy and Val. "Ice nass," he mumbled, as they finished. "What?" Val said, helping re−button the red blouse. "Nice ass, I mean," Michael chortled. 45

"Mine or hers?" Val said, zipping his jeans. Chrissy giggled and straightened her skirt. "Wasted." "Yeah, Space Boy," Val agreed, nuzzling her neck. She whimpered as he nipped the skin, leaning into his lips. Val whispered something into her ear. She smiled and sauntered over to Michael. She slipped the pipe from his hand and, re−lighting with the Bic, took a deep puff. Blowing the smoke into Michael's face, she asked, "How about you, Space Boy? Want I should ride your rocket, too?" She glanced at Val when he laughed and stepped closer to pat her denim−clad rump. Her smeared lipstick matched her shirt. Not anything like Casey's in the rose picture −− not the right shade. No magic there, but Val's were. Perfect. Obeying some compulsion, Michael kissed him, and he kissed back. Ten minutes later, having barely escaped the Bakerwood with intact skins, the battered Fiat left any pursuit behind. Val laughed like a loon. Michael, even with a slightly clearer head, failed to see the joke. "You should have seen her face!" Casey's brother shouted over the sound of the wind whipping through the torn canopy and laughed again. Chrissy had thrown open the bathroom door and pointed at Val and Michael as they emerged. "Fags!" she yelled. Val had pushed him toward the emergency exit, mouthing 'RUN!!!' Michael vaguely remembered Val dropping one bold fella with a familiar karate punch, then another with a kick to the groin. Apparently Casey wasn't the only grasshopper in her family. They dashed madly to the car, rednecks on their asses, barely getting the doors closed against the heavy fists, which pummeled the windows and hood. Michael heard the ripping sound as some bearded, walrus−faced giant landed on the roof. He had been able to see the grinning face through the hole and had planted a jab on the bulbous nose. The man fell off as Val gunned the engine and, with a hail of bottles pelting the metal, they sped off. A truck on monster tires had followed for a short time, but had been unable to keep up as Val floored the gas pedal on the interstate and burned away at top speed. "God, that was fabulous!" Val exclaimed. They had left the highway for a narrow, winding road, which followed the river back to Placid. Michael groaned and covered his face. He'd kissed him. The blistering desire hadn't completely left his memory, though he wished it would. This evening had already lasted far longer than the few hours the clock claimed. He couldn't wait to get away from this mad man. What else could possibly happen which already hadn't? "We got company," Val said, looking in the mirror. Red and blue flashing lights burned through the darkness behind them. The police car, with its ass−hauling interceptor engine, caught up easily. The night just careened from one disaster to the next. The loose skree, like a gravely voice, muttered ominously beneath the tires as Val pulled the car onto the shoulder. Michael looked back. The cop stood beside his car adjusting his hat and belt. "Oh great, Officer Louie." Michael slid further down in his seat. "We are screwed. Go Directly to Jail. Do Not Pass Go." The smell of beer, the ripped canopy, their sheer mph when radared −− not to mention the pot in Val's pocket −− he abandoned hope. "We're dead meat." "I can't go to jail," Val stated quietly. "Tough shit." Michael said, singularly unconcerned about Val's problem. He faced his own: his father would be quietly triumphant; his mother would be noisily disappointed. "No way out." Val looked at him. "I won't go to jail. Pretend to be asleep, and don't say anything." The officer tapped on the driver−side window. Val rolled it down. "Rough night?" "Yeah, you could say that." Michael could see the cop once−overing the dents and scrapes and the creative ventilation. "What's up with your friend?" The officer jerked his chin toward Michael. "Rough night." Did Val think being a wise ass would help? "Do I smell beer?" 46

"Probably." "Hooch?" "Definitely." "Out of the car, boy." Menacingly, the cop jiggled his nightstick to and fro in its sling. Opening the door, Val whispered, "Don't move." He climbed out, flinging it shut. "Hey you." The cop rattled what remained of the roof. "Wake up." He leaned in the window and, as Michael watched in paralyzed horror, Val slammed the man's forehead into the top of the door. The officer fell like a beanbag, obviously unconscious. Michael jumped out and ran around the car. Val had unsnapped the holster and pulled out the weapon. He knelt beside the assaulted man, pensively regarding the gun. "Oh, no. You can't kill a cop." "I won't go to jail." He put the muzzle in the cop's ear. "Forever, if you pull the trigger." "Only if they catch me." "Don't be stupid." Val hesitated. "What if I make it look like suicide?" He tucked the gun in his waistband. He grabbed the man under the arms and looked at Michael. "Some help here, sport." "Don't." "Fine. Think of something else and I won't. Casey says you're bright, think of plan B, or I'll go with plan A." Michael grabbed the officer's ankles and they carried him to the bigger car. Val positioned him in the driver's seat. "Would he leave his seatbelt on or take it off to blow himself away?" "Wait!" Michael said. A whiff of an idea had occurred to him. "Put it on." The road sloped here, down to the river. If they set the car to rolling, it would end up crunched against a tree. "He pulled over to catch a few Z's. The brake slipped and the car rammed the tree. Anything he remembers will be scrambled by the head injury." He waited for Val's opinion. Finally Casey's brother shook his head, "Not good enough." Michael reached out and placed his hand over the gun barrel. "Please, don't." Val slumped, sighing. "All right. We'll do it your way, almost. Go start the car, I'm going to make sure this one hits a tree." He saw the reluctance in Michael's face. "I'm not going to kill him." Val steered the car into a tree. He limped back up onto the road, where Michael had stopped the Fiat and climbed in. "Is he still alive?" "Yes," Val said. "And, dammit, if you don't believe me, go check." Michael slipped down the slope and watched the rise and fall of the unconscious man's chest. Val waited beside the car, arms crossed. "Now do you believe me?" "What took you so long down there before?" "Extra insurance." Michael reached for the passenger side door. Val grabbed his wrist, hard. "If you weren't Casey's, you'd be with him." "Yeah, I know." A pounding headache slammed into his temples, beating out a savage cadence. "As it is, you have to forget about this." "I won't tell anyone." Val shook his head. "Not good enough." Like strapping steel, Val's arms embraced him. Michael stayed silent, abruptly remembering the time his cat had caught a mouse. The cat carried the rodent, hanging limply from the needle−like teeth, around the yard. He and his sister had tried to persuade Beans to drop her prize. After a long while Michael and Laura had realized the mouse wasn't dead. It had just surrendered to the inevitable and, as the sharp teeth sliced into his neck, Michael knew exactly how the mouse felt and didn't struggle. He awoke on Casey's sofa from a thoroughly unpleasant dream. His head rested on her shoulder and, 47

opening his eyes, he could read the words in the book she held in her lap. Music played −− Fleetwood Mac. He cleared his throat and the book closed. "You're back," her voice murmured. "I think so." He raised his head, bleary. "Wow, your brother has some good weed." "Thanks," Val said from the kitchen. Michael sat upright, heart pounding. Casey put her hand inside his shirt and nuzzled his neck. A moment's pain, then she gave sweet relief from all that ailed him. "Sex, drugs, rock and roll," he whispered. Casey licked his neck, soothing the bite. "Only one thing?" "Hmm?" Her lips moved against his. "When does the sex part start?" He kissed her, knowing the slipperiness for what it had to be. His blood. "How about now?" "Smile, campers," Val said. The flash hurt Michael's tired eyes, but Casey held him and together they watched the Polaroid develop. He woke up the next morning with a stunning headache, remembering getting high with Val, but little else; feeling disappointment at not being sober in his first time as Casey's lover. He had wanted it to be better −− special and romantic. He also woke up with a puzzling antipathy for Casey's brother. Spring 2003 Michael still had the photo in his hands as the memory cascade ground to a halt. His memories felt fuzzy and incomplete −− which was more and more the case. The premiere in a long history of self−editing? Or induced memory loss caused by their venom in his blood. Did it matter? He thought maybe it did. '?' "Hi, Kate." He recognized her. Her hands slid down his shoulders to clasp on his chest. The weight of her head rested on the top of his. "I'm sorry we spoiled your plans." "I guess it doesn't matter. It really wasn't the first time." "For you it was." He looked at the girl in the picture, remembering how deeply he'd loved her. "Were there more?" Michael tapped the snapshot. "Did you keep them?" Her chin moved, a no. "Val may have, I didn't. Oh! Wait." She released her hold on him and moved to the bookcase. She removed a leather binder, the one with the silvery picture of Kathy or Casey or Kate. Curling up beside him, Kate untied the string. She gave him one of her oblique glances. "Kate, or Katie." "For now or for real?" "For real." She flipped the pages, pausing when she sensed he wanted a longer look. A few pictures were the same, many new ones. He put his hand on the picture of her as Kathy. "The rose symbolizes blood?" he ventured. "Your lips are red because you'd just bitten someone?" "I'd just fed, yes." "When did Val take this?" he asked. Suddenly he identified the background −− wet sand. The silky white sheet substituted for the frothy edge of the crashing waves. Bethany Beach, and Val had been there. "You'd be my girl by day and cruise with Val by night?" She pushed his hand away and turned the page. The next picture was of him, shirtless, with the muscle tone he'd never see again. Arms crossed, with a beer bottle between his thighs making some sort of phallic statement. The contrasts had been enhanced in the black and white photograph. The highlights brightened, the shadows deepened, creating a menacing starkness. The emotion captured in the face drew his gaze −− alarm turning to primal anger. The look of a predator poised to leap. He hated the pose, but the picture itself was undeniably the most flattering he'd ever had taken. Or so he thought until she turned to the next. This one had Casey in it. The two of them lay face to face, touching along the entire length of their bodies. Her leg thrown over his hip, his bent knee rested between her thighs −− legs intertwined. His hand covered her breast and hers lay lightly on his wrist. Their heads rested on their arms, which stretched above them to terminate in clasped fingers. Profiles almost touching, eyes closed 48

but not in suggestion of slumber. A sense of sated desire flowed from the pose. Her lips were red and, looking closely, several small wounds could be found in his neck and inner elbow. Val hadn't edited the scratches; therefore they had a meaning to him. Perhaps as a counterpoint to the preceding photo. Savagery tamed. "Beauty and the Beast," he murmured. "That's what Val calls it. He only smiles when I ask which is which." The perspective bothered him. "Did he stand on the bed?" Katie shrugged. "I didn't notice." He turned the last few pages. A stranger's visage in each. He closed the book and she slipped it back into the binder. "You dance, Val takes pictures. Are you all artistic?" "In various ways, I suppose." She pulled a thin volume from the shelf as she replaced the photo album. "A cousin −− my aunt wrote these." "Aunt? Or cousin?" "Another of my grandmother's daughters." "Not the same as an aunt?" Katie grimaced. "If she is my aunt, then her twin is my uncle." "Why does that bother you?" She shrugged, "He could be chosen to sire my children." She accurately judged his expression. "Which is uncommon these days, but happened often in the early years. Isolation, and the slowness of travel narrowed our choices. Sanguine similarities were downplayed unless much closer." "You could wait." "We ovulate only rarely, two or three times in our entire lives. We don't waste a single opportunity." "Even if you have to mate with your uncle?" "Even to mating with our twin, which is considered very nasty." "I'm surprised you don't all have extra fingers, or two heads," he commented. "We were created with absolutely clean genomes. The only reason a twin is off−limits as a mate is custom, not genetics," she defended hotly. "Off−limits as a mate, but not a lover." She glared at him. "Incest taboos are a human solution to the problems interbreeding generates. We don't have those problems to worry about, so we have never developed an incest taboo." "But you don't mate with your twin. Why? Because it's an abomination in the eyes of God?" She laughed. "Don't burden me with your Judeo−Christian fixations. If there is a God, what makes you think he cares?" Kate tossed her hair and looked at the book in her hands. "We don't mate with our twins because it's a bit narcissistic. Our twins are as ourselves, making love with Val would be closer to masturbation than intercourse." "There is a difference between your hand and his." "Not to us." "Right. You lie to yourself as much as you say I have." She shook her head. "I have too much control over him −− as he has over me. Nothing unexpected or unpremeditated ever happens. If he moves his hand thus," She stroked the air, "It is because I wished it." She paused, concentrating. "How can that be judged the same as the bond between unlike? Just because you cannot appreciate the difference does not negate the distinction." She laid the book beside him. "Believe what you like, you always have." The book fell open in his hands to a poem that had been read often enough to leave a scar in the binding. Your life flows like wine over my lips. Filling my mouth with the essence of your love. The sweetness has no comparison on my tongue. 49

The generosity haunts my dreams of your love. The vestiges flutter like butterflies through my flesh. I rest peacefully in the knowledge of your love. The poem went on for several more stanzas. A love poem about drinking blood. Different. "Is this about her twin?" he asked. "No, about her human lover. Her once and forever." Kate raised her eyes to meet his, before looking away. "Her Michael." "Does he know what she is?" "Oh yes. Claude died a few years ago. Teresa still mourns him and hopes his God didn't punish him for loving her." Quick tears formed and dried while she spoke. "He even raised her children." "I must be a terrible disappointment for you. Lucky thing you have no children for me to raise." She shrugged. "Val's wives have taken good care of them." His dart of sarcasm came to rest in his own heart. "You have children?" She nodded. "I didn't know." "I never told you." "Why?" "Too many complications. You don't understand viraran adults and," she said, breaking off with a little laugh, "Our children would appall you." "How old?" "Born in '81, and '95." "Twins." "Of course." A little simple arithmetic and a question, "You got pregnant while we were dating?" She nodded. "You are not their father." She plucked the book from his hand and filed it in its proper place. "That's why we went to Paris." "I don't remember." "No?" She stood, hands on hips. "That's because you're hungry. Get your shoes, we'll eat out." They left through the double garage. Next to her sporty Beemer sat his utilitarian Toyota. He looked a question at her. "In this neighborhood abandoned cars get noticed," she said by way of explanation. "And notice means questions?" he asked. She nodded. The garage door went up revealing a gorgeous spring day. "Wow." The late afternoon poured into the shadows gilding everything with a light brush. He enjoyed the exposure to the sun's rays, basking in the warmth. "What day is it?" he wondered aloud. "Friday." She drove deliberately. "Val picked this car." She nodded. "Always rag−tops." Katie laughed and said with a smirk, "Babes and convertibles go together like cookies and milk." A Val−ism, Michael knew. His apartment felt like being Alice returning through the looking glass. The ordinary rooms filled with ordinary things; none having deeper meaning, nothing to trigger flights into memory. Kate waited while he showered and changed. His own toothbrush and razor, his own soap and shampoo standing in the accustomed places. He went into his bedroom to find fresh clothing and found Kate instead. She lay swaddled in his blankets, her face buried in his pillows. "Kate?" 50

She opened her eyes, reluctantly. "Can we sleep here tonight?" He snorted. "You like my mattress?" "I like your smell, and it is everywhere here." She wriggled a bit. With something like embarrassment, Michael realized how aroused she was. Kate had been lying here, smelling his scent, waiting for him, touching herself. She reached out for his hand and, without any conscious decision, he joined her in her cocoon. For once he couldn't smell her vanilla ice cream fragrance. Only the scent of fabric softener and another subtler one. His own, he supposed, wondering how it smelled to her. "Like cafe au lait." A whisper in his ear. She nuzzled his neck and he steeled himself against the expected sting. Instead, she tilted her head back against his arm, exposing her throat to him. He nipped where the blue tracings of vessels showed through the tender skin. Her parted lips bared the incisors, which gleamed like a wolf's. Fully extended, he thought, they must retract like a cat's claws. He watched, fascinated, as she fought the instinct. Stroking her, caressing, and kissing, Kate seemed to suffer the orgasm as a torture. She didn't bite and, as she lay panting, almost crying, he wondered why. "I thought biting during sex was compulsory. Involuntary." Kate lay in his arms, gradually quieter. Finally she answered him. "I am no more an animal than you. Because a thing is instinctual does not mean I am unable to resist its urging." "It's difficult, though?" "Like a male resisting orgasm," she supplied a comparison. The strip mall restaurant served Chinese food. The lanterns and garishly colored wallpaper cast rainbows on their plates. Kate sat beside him in the booth, her knee against his. Michael asked for a fork, feeling like a complete dolt. Kate used chopsticks. No surprise, he'd half expected her to order in the native language. The slip in his fortune cookie read, You hold destiny in your hands, decide. "You arranged this," he accused. She read his fortune and laughed. She held out her own slip of paper. Love is a frightened bird. Move slowly. The sparkle of her eyes touched him and he laughed with her. No one could accuse Kate of moving too quickly to capture him. They sipped tea and chatted about inconsequential things. The night had arrived with a brisk wind behind it. Strolling along the sidewalk outside the stores with their screaming banners advertising sales and bargains, he asked, "Why did we break up?" She huddled into her jacket, hands jammed into deep pockets. "No one specific thing. You simply stopped wanting to be near me, I think." "Did we argue?" He remembered a furious fight, but whether it happened at Placid he had no idea. "You did," she offered. "Anna!" A hearty voice interrupted the tête−à−tête. A tall handsome man loped toward them. His short hair had been combed back with style gel, a single lock falling over his forehead. Square chinned, straight aquiline nose, and a smile that any orthodontist would be proud to claim as his own work, the man dressed in an L. L. Bean look, down to the impeccable leather loafers and a safari jacket with lots of pockets. "Feeling better?" he asked, catching up. "Much, thank you," Kate said. The man glanced at Michael, dismissing him as competition in the instant. A lot you know, buddy, Michael thought savagely. Kate smiled, giving him one of her Katie−looks. "Carl, this is Michael Beiler. Michael, Carl Reynolds." Carl stuck out his hand and gave an imitation of a friendly smile. "Beiler. You must be the lab guy. Anna's business partner." "Yes, the lab guy. Pleased." Never refuse to shake a man's hand. His father had been correct on that score −− even if you preferred the idea rearranging his mug. This guy had to know a plastic surgeon. Nobody's face 51

was this perfect naturally. Carl's attention turned to Kate. "So can we reschedule? You know I love your cooking." The re−heated dinner had been prepared for this jerk? She had canceled Carl, to be with him. She patted her pockets. "I don't have my pock−a−dex. I'll call you when I know my schedule." Carl smoothed her hair while Michael seethed, his fists clenched in his jacket pockets. "Lunch Tuesday still okay?" She hesitated. "I think so. I'll call." Carl gestured toward the video store ahead. "I gotta run. The kids are waiting to rent movies. Call me at work." "Don't I always?" she asked. "Yeah, good girl," he commented, planting a peck on her cheek. He loped on, throwing a last wave and smile as he pulled open the glass door. "Anna?" he commented. Kate, Kathy, Casey, or Anna −− did she ever get confused about which her to show up as? She chuckled softly, catching the drift of his thoughts. He could feel the cool stirring on the back of his neck that indicated her mental touch. They continued in silence. Michael knew she knew he wanted to know about this, but couldn't ask. Finally, "Who's he?" "My once−a−week lunch date." "Restaurant or no−tell motel?" She snorted. "Jealous? We eat." She paused, feeling his relief. "Then we fuck and I feed." "Oh." He had asked and gotten an answer, one he didn't like. "Once a week?" "Plus dinner one evening a month." "One evening a month?" "His wife's card party night." "He's married? Does he know about...?" "What I am?" She laughed. "No. Viraran are careful whom we tell." "Why him? He's an asshole." "I have a penchant for assholes, Michael." Her meaning clear −− he was being one. "Carl is uncomplicated. Not looking for love, but healthy and virile. He pleases me and my small trespasses go unnoticed." "Trespass? Blood?" She ignored his comment. "He also happens to be a whiz bang stock−broker who has placed all his insider trading gains in his wife's name." "He cheats?" "Big time; on the system, on his wife, on his employer, on his taxes. I know exactly what and when to buy. I never hold on longer than he does to any security. Like most men, he does his best thinking during sex." "He's usually right?" Michael felt curious, as well as jealous. "I've never lost money on his tips." "He just gives you winners as reward?" "Hell, no. He doesn't give me anything. I read his mind." She unlocked the BMW and slid in. "When did you start locking your car?" he asked. Casey never had. Her eyes glowed in the darkness. "Times change and, eventually, I must." He loved her kisses. The effect felt more profoundly calming in the familiar surroundings. Her hands soothed him and, taking the initiative, he asked, "Do you love him?" '?' Followed by a face. "Yeah, Carl." "No. He's just my once−a−week lunch date." She slept with him to feed on him. "How often do you need blood?" "It varies. Right now, every couple days." 52

"Sometimes more? Or less?" "More, never less. But I once fasted almost three weeks." "Why?" "So I couldn't hear you crying." '?' She laughed, surprised. "Well sent. I lose those abilities if I don't feed." "For what reason did I cry?" "Because you mourned, but had forgotten what you'd lost." '?' "Me. Us." In the prolonged silence that followed, Michael sifted his emotions. He had loved her desperately. He could remember his breathless anticipation to see her again. Like an ember rekindled by a zephyr of air, the glow in him awaited her. The worst part of reliving the repressed memories is how a shadow had been cast over his mind. Did he love her now? Or did he merely reflect the emotions of then. Did he confuse the two because the past's circumstances had overlaid the present's reality? Why had she continued to −− stalk him? Any sentient creature would have moved on, pair bonding notwithstanding. The more time he spent with her, the more convinced he became of a deeper agenda. She needed him, not only for a meal, but also for something else. Like the stockbroker and his insider information. An agenda −− a strategy. What would she do when Carl tired of her? On the cusp of sleep, the Polaroid flashed into his mind. He wondered, and then knew for a certainty, there were photos of Carl. Blackmail coupled with venom, a powerful motivation to comply. Or to forget. Had it been that way with him? "I love your mind," she said quietly. "Watching it solve a puzzle in which so many pieces are missing." Kate rolled to rest her head on his chest, chin on the back of her hand. "We can't do that. We're not stupid, but ingeniousness and just plain cleverness are beyond us." She brushed back his hair, soothing warm hands caressing away tension. "I can recite entire epic poems. I can recall lyrics from hits of my childhood and onward. I can speak several languages fluently and more in pidgin, or quote passages from any book I've read." She nibbled his nipples, causing a shiver that made her smile. "But I cannot put together a child's jigsaw puzzle unless I took it apart. Math problems frustrate me until I am shown the solution, then I can whip through any number of similar equations until something new is added. Crosswords horrify me, though I am extremely verbal. I cannot invent, devise strategy or extrapolate, and I cannot imagine another way to survive." He began a sentence to be silenced by her fingers on his lips. "Every survival mechanism we have was suggested by one of your kind: blackmail, our frequent identity changes, our family structure, and even our child−rearing techniques. Once taught we can apply the knowledge, but we could have never thought of the basic idea itself." "What do you want from me?" Her silky hair caught in the chapped skin of his palm. "I'll know when you tell me." Machiavellian logic, not only did she expect him to come up with a solution, he also had to define the problem. "Yes, exactly. I only know there is a problem and, as humans have always shown us, every problem has a solution." Sometimes more than one, he thought. She shrugged. "One would suffice." His thoughts were coming more and more transparent to her. "Do I need to speak? Or can you just suck what you want from my mind." "Sorry. The more often you feed me, the more I am bound to you." "And me to you?" "Not in the same way. You can walk away, I can't." "Why?" Kate stretched and lay back on the pillows, staring up into the zebra shadows cast by the streetlights 53

through the mini−blinds. She tucked her hands behind her head and humphed as she thought. Michael traced the shadows crisscrossing her breasts and stomach with his forefinger. The body of a twenty year old −− firm and trim. He became aware of the slight paunch of his waist and the gray traces in his chest hair. What would happen as he aged? Would he look back in dementia, spouting fables, causing knowing winks among the staff of the nursing home? 'Yeah, yeah, Mikey. She danced like an angel and drank your blood.' "Which question shall I answer?" she whispered, tears standing in her eyes. "The easy one first. I will love you 'til the day you die and longer. No nurse will ever say those things to you because I will be there to guard and protect you. If you have pain, I will ease it. If you wish to make love to me with your body or in your fantasies, I will join you. When you slip into the night from which none of us return, I will pray to your God for his forgiveness and understanding. If there is a heaven, as you believe, and if I am offered the chance −− I will join you there as well." She wiped away her tears impatiently. "What's the matter?" "Crying hurts; and before you ask why," she sniffled a little snort of laughter, because he had been about to ask, "Listen to the answer of your last why." He listened, but her silence lingered awhile longer. Finally, she sighed. "A puzzle for you to think about, while we make love." "Are you so certain we will?" Quiet laughter and her hand around his erection served as answers to his question. "Okay, we will. What's the puzzle?" "You have whatever resources you require; genetic material is as easy to manipulate as jigsaw puzzle pieces. Your canvas is a sapient, sentient non−person. Design a slave species." Her hands sought out his and guided him to her breasts. He concentrated on his assignments while enjoying her ministrations. A perfect slave: Smart but loyal, beautiful and pleasing, even tempered but spirited. The perfect slave could anticipate needs and provide entertainment. Be utterly dependent on the master species and unable to survive without support. Having complete physical and emotional dependency, acquiescent to demands. The perfect slave race shouldn't be able to overrun the masters by weight of numbers. "Anything else?" Kate asked, as she straddled his thighs and, with him inside her velvet glove tightness, began to move. His thoughts were becoming fractured by distraction. "Help me." "The perfect slave feels little attachment to their own species or even their own children. What human mother would allow her children to be born to abject slavery without visions of emancipation? A perfect slave can't cry or pout or aspire." He held her hips in his hands and drove himself deeper. "What better way to discourage crying, than to make tears hurt?" The rhythm she found matched the one for which he longed. "By design, I am a perfect slave." "But you are more than that." The words broke from his throat, as the good orgasm pulsed through his body. Boy−oh−boy, he couldn't do this too many more times. "They misjudged." She pulled his hand from her waist, nuzzled his wrist and finished what she had struggled against earlier. "Remember more?" he murmured against her bloodstained mouth. "Only if it's what you want." "Stay." "I will." Fall 1979 Michael paced as Casey read through his paper. Her eyes moved slowly down each page, digesting each word. A furrow in her brow betrayed her concentration. At the bottom of the last page her hands dropped to her lap, still clutching the typed sheets between them. "You write well. I understand completely your impressions and conclusions." She smoothed the edges, flattening the slight wrinkles her fingers had caused. "You believe, then, the scientists were justified in their use of Charlie as an experimental subject?" 54

"Yeah, because their intentions were to help him. They couldn't know the effects of the treatment were only temporary. Besides, those months of his life were remarkable and special. He was exposed to a world that he hadn't even glimpsed, and afterwards, he remembered feeling special if not the specifics. He knew love, physical and emotional." "She disappointed him, by being less than what he had imagined," Casey pointed out. "I consider that the writer's statement on the alterations everyone experiences. Enduring love needs time to respond to change. They grew apart because he evolved too quickly." The whistling of the teapot interrupted whatever reply she had begun to make. Casey slipped into the kitchen and returned with two cups of hot cocoa. The last days of Indian summer had past, the weather turning damp and cold almost overnight. Michael fancied the smell of snow wafted in some of the early morning spates of frigid drizzle. Placid had hard winters; snow could be expected as early as Thanksgiving and as late as Easter. Someday he vowed to live in a warm climate where he'd wear Hawaiian shirts and khaki shorts year round. Snow sucked. "How did your fraternity party go?" she asked. Her brother had come to town unexpectedly and she hadn't come. "S.S.D.D.," he replied, blowing the mini−marshmallows around on the surface of the confection. Casey preferred whipped cream and cinnamon, a European affectation. She looked cute licking the white mustache from her upper lip. "What?" she asked, wiping a dollop of cream from the side of her mug and holding to his lips to taste from her fingers. Michael watched her as she fetched the Jack Daniels from the cabinet. Even just walking her movements resembled a dance. "Same Shit, Different Day. S.S.D.D. I caught Loser slipping a Mickey to a frosh. He's been warned. This afternoon at the meeting, I brought it up to vote. Once more and he's out." "So the brothers back you on this?" she asked, opening the bottle of whiskey and pouring a jigger into the cocoa. She offered him a shot and added it with a generous hand. He took a sip, grimacing at the burn. "I said I'd go to the Pan Hellenic Council if they didn't. I'm persona non grata with them right now. Nobody will talk to me or loan me class notes. Assholes," he proclaimed. Sometimes doing the right thing seemed more of a bother than it was worth. "Stay here," she suggested. "You can use the other bedroom, if you want." He shook his head. "Too far from campus. It takes too long to get to class." "Use the Jeep. Or is that just an excuse?" she asked, lifting her mug and draining the final drops. "How would you get back and forth? Or would you just hangout on campus all day?" he replied. "We'll work it out." "How about rent? I'm paid up at the house for the year. I really can't afford much." "I'll take it out in trade," she said. She waited for him to raise his eyebrows and leer before adding, "You can do the laundry and the cooking." She giggled at his exaggerated expression of dismay. "And grocery shop, I'm guessing?" he said in mock annoyance. "Sounds fair to me!" she said with a toss of her head. "So shall I make up the spare bed?" Michael captured her hand and pulled her into his lap. "Oh, I think we can get by with just the one." Her happy smile caressed his heartstrings. A few weeks later, with a mischievous grin, she led him out to the parking lot. A metal−flake green Malibu with a black vinyl top sat in the second parking slot for 205. "Nice, tired of the Jeep?" Michael asked. A muscle car, even in mint condition, didn't fit his image of Casey. She tossed him a set of keys. "Like it? It's yours." He handed back the keys. "Nope. I can't take it." He ignored her disappointed look and headed back inside the apartment. She followed as he retreated to the smaller bedroom where he did most his studying. Casey set the keys on the text he'd been reading. Michael pushed them aside. "No." "Why not?" 55

"If you're tired of carting me back and forth, I'll move back into the Chi house. Most my stuff's still there." She insinuated herself between him and the book, sitting her lovely fanny on the opened pages. Sighing, Michael leaned back in the chair and crossed his arms. "Why not?" she repeated. "I don't care how much money you have, Casey, it isn't mine. Taking that car would make me feel like a whore. Not part of our bargain." "What we have is a bargain? I thought we had a relationship." He gave a little push, moving her rump from his workspace. "Okay, we have a relationship, but me living here is a bargain." "You don't like the car." she stated flatly. He rubbed his face. "It's great, but too much." Michael patted her hip. "Now don't go away mad, just go away. Unlike you, I gotta study." Casey stood to the side and he could feel her eyes watching as he pretended to work. He heaved a mental sigh of relief when she moved toward the door. "A male pride thing?" she asked. "Yeah." "Okay." The car disappeared and he thought the issue settled until several days later. "Casey, get up," he whispered into her ear. She mumbled something and burrowed further into the covers. "I've got a class and you have seminar. You gotta take me. Unless you plan on skipping?" Casey never skipped Ethics, unless she was away. Michael had wondered, upon occasion, why and where she went, but felt a certain reticence to pry. "Case, come on. I'm going to be late." A bare arm slithered out from the cocoon of blankets, reaching for something on the bedside table. She found his hand and plunked a set of keys in his fingers. "Damn it, I said no." He dropped the keys as if they burned him. "Go 'way," her mumbling voice replied. Michael stormed from the apartment, slamming the door with a force that caused the numbers to rattle. The walk to campus took twenty−five minutes. Graphics lab and he was going to be late. He should have known a rich bitch like Casey wouldn't keep taxi−ing him around. Michael's momentum carried him ten steps from the apartment's door. A battered, gray sedan sat beside the pristine Jeep, looking so out of place in the Volvo and Saab speckled lot. Patches of rust had been puttied and primed but never painted. The front quarter panel had been replaced with a piece in a contrasting color. The vinyl roof showed signs of cracking and had begun to peel in places. The only new thing about the car was a bright vanity plate on the front bumper. 'Casey's Gigolo' had been spelled out in fancy pink script against a lavender background. The plate probably cost more than the car. He stood in stunned amazement at the flagrantly offensive and tacky vehicle. Knowing she stood there, he turned back toward the apartment door. Casey smiled from the doorway, wrapped in the bedclothes, watching his reaction. The keys dangled from her fingers. "Well?" "This car I'll take." She tossed him the keys and as he wrenched open the driver side door her laughter followed him.

"Michael?" He glanced over to where Casey sprawled across the guest room bed. He had been aware of her regard for some time and had expected an interruption. "Hmm?" He listened while continuing to read the class notes. "Do you have anything nice to wear?" she asked, tilting her head to look at him in the averted way she 56

often did. "Nice? Like what?" Okay, she had his full attention, now. He wondered if she had liked to lie around in her underwear so much before he'd moved in. She seemed to own a remarkable variety of lingerie in a dozen shades and styles. He liked this set −− a short satin shirt that barely covered her tits and high−cut panties, both in a pale gold, which complimented her dark hair and eyes. She rolled over and stretched her arms above her head, which hung up−side down over the end of the bed. The short shirt rode up revealing the curves and she had raised one knee. He thought she knew exactly the picture she made and the exact effect it had on him. Time for a study break. Reaching over and tugging on the shirt exposed her breasts. Michael knelt next to the bed and captured both wrists in his hand. With his lips he teased her nipples as his free hand found other diversions. Casey always was in the mood, never begged off for a headache or the other myriad excuses in a woman's arsenal. Never had she objected to his advances, nor ever seemed apathetic to his kinkier requests. Not completely naive, he realized even the kinkiest of his fantasies fell far short of perversion, though some were probably illegal in the Bible Belt. All in all, he found her enthusiasm for sex amazing and welcome −− and she gave great head. Good enough to forgive the tendency to use her teeth sometimes. No lasting damage and, hot damn, didn't the results justify whatever momentary distraction her little bites caused. Good God, he couldn't bear to move −− but the essays in his Modern Authors text awaited. Michael much rather lie still and enjoy the sensation of Casey's tongue on his stomach. The soft breath blown across the dampness sent shivers through whatever patch of skin she tormented. "I'm going to Philly," she stated, getting to her knees. "Next weekend." "What for?" He felt around for his jeans and pulled them on. "A business thing," Casey said, "and a party. I can bring a date, so I want to know if you have nice clothes." "Yeah, I have a jacket. Corduroy. Liz picked it out for a wedding last year. Okay?" Finally, he'd have a chance to glimpse the other part of Casey's life. "Yes, fine." Her solemn voice caught his attention and her expression appeared bleak and close to tears. "Hey? I'll get a new one if me wearing one Liz chose bothers you." Michael smoothed back her hair and kissed her forehead. She blinked and said, "What? No, really. It's fine. I'm thinking about something else." "Well stop, you look ready to cry." Michael chucked her chin. "Buck up, honey. Everything is just roses. We're young and in love and almost ready to take on the world, right after I take on Modern Authors." "In love?" she asked. "Yeah, in love," he admitted. Casey blushed and averted her face, but Michael would have none of it. He kissed her, then, with firm resolve, patted her ass as he pushed her out of the door. "Gotta study, babe. Go to bed." "Alone?" He waggled his fingers good−bye and closed the door on her.

He hadn't been certain what to expect but, as Casey pulled into the wide, tree−lined private roadway, he knew this wasn't it. He reviewed what she had told him about her Philadelphia cousins with whom they'd be staying. The drive had been uneventful. Casey napped from Placid to Harrisburg and then had awakened to eat at the roadside diner. She had chatted about these cousins as if she hadn't seen them in years. She had mentioned names, Dona, Deborah, and Deanne. It was Dona's home that lay within these stone walls. "I thought you said she has a house." All the houses loomed in the darkness like cliffs, pinpoints of lights defining windows. These kinds of houses were given names, like Tara or Wuthering Heights. The bare trees were mature, stately oaks and maples or huge, frothy pines, which secluded the lawns from the gazes of passersby. "Not a fuckin' mansion." "All things are relative, especially with my relatives." She smiled and threw a fleeting glance his way. She steered the Jeep between two stone lions into a winding driveway. "She always said she'd have stone 57

lions to guard her house someday. We used to play on the ones on the steps to the library. Lionel and Mary." "Lionel and Mary?" "Barrymore and Pickford," she replied, leaving him further confused. The house sat on a knoll overlooking the Schuylkill River. Casey stopped the Jeep under a stone portico and climbed out, stretching and rubbing the miles out of her rump. Michael slipped from his seat and gazed up at the gothic structure above them. A middle−aged man and a teen−age boy appeared from the side door. The boy resembled the man in build and coloring. Michael took them for father and son and wondered if these were cousins also. "Miss Katie, welcome. Mrs. Grisome and her sisters are in the Arizona room." One question answered, these guys were not family. Michael had just sighted the rare, in his world, creatures known as servants. The older man unloaded the few suitcases and the boy accepted the keys from Casey's −− Katie's hand. "Thank you, Mr. Charles. Adam, I hardly recognized you. You're huge!" Casey said. The teen−ager blushed and mumbled something as he climbed into the driver's seat. Michael stifled a laugh as he remembered his suggestion that they drive 'Gigs' because the seats were more comfortable. Oh boy. "This is my friend, Michael Beiler," Casey said, indicating her companion. Mr. Charles didn't extend his hand, but nodded and said pleasantly, "Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Beiler. A good Pennsylvania Dutch name, I think?" "Yes, as Dutchy as they come. I can remember my grandmother wearing a bonnet." "Such memories are priceless. Welcome to Briar Knoll." Damn, Michael thought, he knew it. A house with a name. The interior of the house felt a great deal homier than the exterior. Casey led the way as Mr. Charles disappeared with their luggage. "Miss Katie?" he asked in a low voice. "Yeah. Casey comes from my initials. 'K' and 'Z'," she explained. "Katie Zurin, I think you're keeping a lot of secrets," Michael joked. Blowing off Friday's classes seemed like a small price to pay for what he'd already seen. Casey glanced up at him as she stopped before a French door. "And those I don't, you do." "Huh?" She swung open the door and a cascade of greetings ended any chance for additional questions. Casey's cousins were handsome women. Late middle age, Michael guessed. Dona's husband, Rob, and Deanna's husband, Mac, had a chess game in progress. Rob hugged Casey and held her at arm's length. "Aren't you a sight for sore eyes? You get prettier every time you visit." Dona snickered. "Move, you old goat. Let me get a hug." She followed her words with a warm embrace and a kiss on Casey's cheek. "Who is this hunk? Did you bring me a new gardener?" The grin on her face saved Michael from any embarrassment. Dona's quick hug welcomed him. "Hello, Michael. Glad you could come." Mac called over from the table, "Hello, Katie. You've saved Rob from a serious butt−kicking." "In your dreams, Mac. Game's not over yet." Rob regained his seat and concentrated on the board. Deanna and pictures of grandchildren drew Casey away. Dona led Michael to a comfortable seat near the Mexican style fireplace. "Beer, wine, coffee? Or a soda?" Dona offered. "Are you kids hungry?" Casey nodded. "I could eat." "You want a beer, or how about some hot tea?" Michael accepted the offer of a beer and Casey wanted tea. In the quiet moment that followed Dona's departure, Michael took in his surroundings. Tall narrow French doors punctuated three walls. The spaces between were filled with macramé hangings or sand art. The reddish tile floor had a border of hand painted pieces depicting desert animals and plants. A large plaster−cast verdigris sculpture −− sun, moon, and stars placed one inside the other −− adorned the one solid, stucco−coated wall. A collection of stone figurines stood on small stucco outcroppings on the same wall. Michael wandered over to admire the pieces then, at a loud groan from Rob, gravitated toward the chess table. The game was pretty much over and Michael figured Mac would checkmate Rob's king within three 58

moves. Watching until Rob admitted defeat, Michael strolled over to glance at what held Casey's attention. Deanne's thick album had many pages to go and Casey appeared completely enthralled by the descriptions and anecdotes the older woman related with gestures and giggles. Michael sat back down on the sofa and watched the fire. He became aware of the silent regard of Dona's last guest, Deborah. Michael took in the dark hair and green eyes, clear, smooth skin and absolutely knockout figure. Unlike the others who had dressed casually, Deborah wore a tight green velour sweater dress. He smiled and said, "Hi." She smiled a tight−lipped greeting and took a swallow of the contents of her glass. "So you're Katie's catch, huh?" she said, at last breaking her silence. "Or vice versa, I guess," Michael offered with a friendly grin. "Oh, I know who caught who," the woman answered, an unpleasant sneer marring her face. "You seem like a bright kid. Take my advice. Run; do not walk to the nearest exit. You don't want to join this clique." "You're drunk, Deb. Shut up 'til you sober up," Dona said, handing Michael a pilsner of beer and a plate holding a variety of tiny decoratively cut sandwiches. "Eat, Michael. Please ignore my sister. She's always wanted what she can't have." The sisters glared at each other with Deb dropping her eyes first. Michael concentrated on the contents of his plate. "You didn't have to go to all this bother," he mumbled. "Leftovers from card club. No bother and, besides, Maria made them." Dona patted his shoulder and sent another warning look to Deborah, who snorted, climbed to her feet and crossed the room to stand by the farthest door, looking pensive and forbidding. Michael saw Casey's eyes follow also. "Hey, everybody!" A young man and woman stood in the doorway. Like a litter of puppies, several children tumbled into the room. "Markie!" Casey said, rising to hug the man. He blushed. "Mark. No one calls me Markie anymore." Casey grinned an apology. "This is my wife, Linda," he introduced the woman. "Lin, this is my cousin, I guess. This is Kate." The wholesome−looking Linda claimed she felt as if she had known Kate for years since Mark spoke of her so often. "I thought you'd be older." She looked at Mark for confirmation. He exchanged a long look with Dona and shrugged. Dona gathered the littles and proudly introduced each −− Tess, Kurt, and Molly. The children spilled back out of the room as soon as freed. Their running footsteps could be heard pounding up some nearby flight of stairs. One plaintive voice could be heard to say, "But Kurt, I want to play Chutes and Ladders." A tearful wail followed. "Oh, for Pete's sake. I'll be back." Linda scurried off to mediate the conflict. Mark Grisome worked as an investment counselor in Baltimore. A couple years older than Michael, he still had an air of enthusiasm about his career that Michael hoped to match in his. He very seriously advised Michael to invest any discretionary income in mutual funds. Not wanting to seem ungrateful for the obviously heart−felt and undoubtedly responsible advice, Michael solemnly agreed that as soon as his money became available he would do just that. He noticed Casey quickly smother a giggle. Rob motioned Michael to the chessboard, inviting him to play. Excusing himself, Michael joined Dona's husband. "Good kid, but sometimes a little boring." Rob indicated Mark with a subtle point with his chin. Mac stifled a laugh. "Single−minded and dedicated," Michael amended. "Like I said, boring." "I need a smoke," Mac said. "I'll bring back some beers. You two need one?" he asked in parting. The elder Mr. Grisome was a terrible chess player with moments of brilliance. Michael found himself defending against unexpected incursions just when he thought the game had entered the end−stages of play. Gradually though, Rob's defenses failed, his attack options narrowed and checkmate seemed inevitable when a commotion broke the players' concentrations. Deanna squealed, "Tad! Oh my God!" She leapt to her feet and dashed to the doorway. "Hi, Dee, Doe. Looking good, babes," a familiar voice said. Michael felt a heave in his stomach. Rob whispered, "Kate's brother, Tad." "Yeah, we've met." But knew him as Val. Michael left the game to sit on the sofa opposite Casey. 59

Deborah spoke from her corner, everyone's start of surprise indicated they, too, had forgotten about her presence in the shadows. "How about me, Tad?" she said, strolling toward him. Michael heard Rob mutter, "Crap, here we go again," under his breath. At Michael's sharp look, Rob shrugged. "Are you happy to see me, too?" she asked. Michael winced at the hint of desperation in the woman's voice. Val looked at Casey and Deborah hissed, "Don't look at her! I'm talking!" The woman approached and placed a well−manicured hand on Val's arm. With a sardonic smile, Val put his arms around her and said, "Yeah, Deb−deb, I'm happy to see you." Michael noticed that everyone, except Casey, averted any attention from the long embrace that followed. Dona cleared her throat and asked, "Val, are you hungry?" Val broke away from the entirely, in Michael's opinion, too familiar greeting. "Not anymore." A long uncomfortable moment passed. Michael surmised Deb's infatuation with Val discomforted everyone else as much as it had him. Mark's wife burst into the room, carrying the smallest of her children. The child's eyes were half−closed, her thumb stationed firmly in her rosebud mouth. A few tears lingered as damp tracks on the chubby cheeks. "Oh!" Linda exclaimed, colliding with Val. He steadied her. The charming smile appeared, the one Michael found himself hating. "Hi. I'm Tad, Kate's brother. Who are you?" The question held an innuendo and interest. Deborah snorted and retreated to her darkened corner, visibly fuming. The woman blushed. "I'm Linda, Mark's wife. This is Molly." She focused her attention on the girl, gratefully −− or so it seemed to Michael. Val smiled at her a minute longer, then looked at Mark. "Lucky guy." Mark, who had been watching, his brow wrinkling further and further, visibly relaxed. "I think so." "Here." Val reached for the baby. "Let me hold her." Lin gratefully relinquished the child, patting the silky baby curls as Val tucked the little one in the crook of his arm. He bounced little Molly slightly at her bleat of objection and she regarded him with round hazel eyes. "You're cute, and you know it, too," he added, as her dimples appeared. Val settled on the sofa beside Michael. "Hey, sport." Little Molly appeared quite comfortable cuddled against the fuzzy softness of Val's reversed sweatshirt. Casey leaned over and brushed back Val's tousled hair. "You're tired. Drive far?" she asked. Resting his chin on Molly's soft hair Val said, "New Orleans." Which explained his out−of−season tan. "What's in New Orleans?" Deanne asked. "She means other than whores and bars, Tad," Deborah interjected from her retreat. Dona moved to rise from the matching sofa, but Casey waved her back. "Let me," Casey said. Michael watched as Casey approached Deborah. The older woman crossed her arms and ignored her cousin, cringing when Casey offered a hug. Michael could hear the sibilant sounds of whispering between them, but Val's response to Deanne's question masked the actual words exchanged. "A job, Dee−Dee," he said, patting the baby's back. The little eyes would droop then widen as she fought the sandman. "Pictures?" Val nodded. "And the other kind. Did some nice work." He glanced up as Deanne and Dona exchanged a worried look. "Both jobs went smoothly." Dona sighed. "I wish..." Molly's eyes had closed and the little head slumped against Val's chest, her thumb parked firmly between pink lips. Val shrugged. "It's what I do." Drugs, Michael supposed. Deanne shook her head. "We worry. Let someone else take the duty." Duty? Not drugs then, but what? Michael glanced back to Casey and Deborah. The two women had seated themselves on the floor, arm in arm, smiling, giggling and talking in urgent whispers, heads together. Mark relieved Val of the sleeping baby and carried her from the room. 60

Linda plopped tiredly in the space between Deanne and Dona. "Thank−you." She shot a pretty smile at Val, flashing the dimples her daughter shared. "Those teeth keep her grumpy." She leaned back. "When she's irritable the whole world knows it." "My daughter, Jill, went through the same thing," Deanne offered. "I would drive out to see her, and she'd spend the entire time napping." "Oh, don't I know? Between the three of them, I can never have a minute to myself. I don't know the last time all my teeth were brushed at the same time. This morning I realized my left leg hadn't been shaved in days." Dona patted her daughter−in−law's knee. "Poor thing. Well, while you're here, take time to rest. Nydia will watch the children." "Let me take your pictures, tomorrow. You and the kids," Val offered. Dona brightened and exclaimed, "Yes! Like the ones you took of Mark and me." Linda shook her head. "I don't know. Those three will never hold still long enough." Val reached out and disheveled Michael's hair. "No problem. Kate's stud here will help. Won't ya, sport?" Though phrased as a question, the look, which accompanied the words, made it an order. Michael felt the hopeful eyes of Linda and Dona urging him to answer. "Well, I don't know what Casey −− Kate has planned for tomorrow," he prevaricated. "I do, you're free all day," Val stated. "It's settled. The big guy and I will simultaneously entertain and immortalized you and the rugrats." Casey and Deborah joined the group on the sofas. Casey cuddled up close to Michael and Deb slipped in next to Val. "Got enough room, Tadder?" Deb said, the rancor of earlier totally missing. He stretched his arm around her shoulders and hugged her in a friendly, affectionate way. "I'm fine, now." She leaned against his chest and Val patted her back, comforting her in much the same way he had done Molly earlier. "Don't you all look cozy," Mac said, offering Rob a bottle and handing one to Michael. "Need one, Tad?" But Mark came back carrying a tall glass, which he offered to Val. "You still like these?" he asked. Val took a deep drink and ahh−ed his satisfaction. "Just right." Casey cuddled closer to Michael, drawing his arms around her. "Let me taste," Deb appealed. Val held the glass to her lips, tipping a sip into her mouth. "Yum," she declared, smacking her lips. "What is it?" Val chuckled wickedly, suggestively. "Well, honey. For reasons obvious to most of you, Markie here decided this is my signature drink. It's called a Slow Comfortable Screw." A short shocked silence followed. Casey laughed. She held out her hand. "Then let me have some, too!" She took a sip, nodded her approval and held the glass up to Michael. "Here. A screw from me to you." Michael took a sip of the concoction and, when Casey's eyes begged him to continue the game, passed the glass to Rob −− who stood closest. "Well, I'm not sure what this will do to your impression of me, but... Hey, Rob? Wanna screw?" Val and Casey burst into laughter and Deb started giggling. Mark slapped Michael's shoulder, guffawing. To Michael's surprise, Rob took the drink, tried it and, in a strangled voice, propositioned Deanne, "I've always hankered to give you a good screw, Dee." The drink continued the round, from Dee to the furiously blushing Linda, on to Mac −− who needed two or three sips to find a witty passing line, then from Mac to Dona. Dona emptied the glass, and regarded it thoughtfully. "Humph, screw this sipping crap. I want a whole bunch of Slow Comfortable Screws... Any volunteers?" Her line set them all to howling. Deb complained, "I didn't get to screw anyone!" "Later, darling!" Mark retorted, causing another burst of laughter. Tess and Kurt, the older Grisome grandchildren wandered in. Tess clambered up into her mother's lap. "What going on, Mommy?" Lin replied, nearly choking in the process, "Oh, we grown−ups were just screwing around." Casey, laughing and hiccupping, nearly slid to the floor, only Michael's arms preventing her collapse. 61

Mark held his sides, putting out his hand in protest. The giggling Deanne patted Linda's back, while Mac turned away holding his mouth and nose. Rob and Dona contained their amusement until Tess asked, "Can I screw around, too?" Kurt rolled his eyes and informed his sister, "No Tess. Mom said grown−ups screw around." Then they were lost also. Michael looked through his laughter tears at Val who had started this whole thing, catching a quick glimpse of his solemn face before Val pulled himself to his feet and said, "Come on, kids. Let's find Maria's cookie jar." Beckoning, he strode from the room. The children chirped delightedly and followed him. Rob took the vacant seat beside Deb and was unperturbed when she laid her head on his shoulder. In a surprisingly nice baritone Rob sang, "Put your head on my shoulder. Whisper in my ear, baby." He gazed fondly into Dona's eyes and, though it was another sister who had her head on his shoulder, he sang to his wife. "Words I long to hear, tell me," Mark pulled Linda to her feet and danced slowly, holding her as if she was porcelain. He hummed along as his father sang, laughing softly when the forgotten words were doobee doobee do−ed. Mac had opened a cabinet and had busied himself with something. Suddenly the mellow first bars of a Paul Anka selection floated out from the stereo. Mac extended his hand to Dee with a dramatic flourish and she stood, curtsied, rather well, Michael thought, and melted into his lead. "Dance with me?" Casey asked. Michael nodded but, a short time later, asked, "Where's the bathroom?" Casey directed him and, as he left, she and Dona began arguing over who would dance with Rob. When, by accident, Michael found the kitchen, Tess and Kurt were sitting on high stools at a wooden butcher−block island, dunking Tollhouse cookies in cups of milk. "Where's Tad?" he asked. Kurt pointed to the kitchen door. "Outside, and he didn't wear his coat." "Mom says 'don't be a tattletale', Kurt," Tess said primly. With an exasperated sigh the boy rolled his eyes at her. "May we have another cookie?" Tess asked. Michael shrugged as he opened the outside door. "Sure. Knock yourselves out." The Grisomes could afford the extra trip to the dentist. Val stood a few feet from the door, shoulders hunched. He had heard the door open and regained his normal stance. "Hey, sport." Annoyed that he'd even bothered to follow, Michael said, "Hey, shithead." He turned to go back to the congenial atmosphere of the Arizona room. "My name's Michael. Hell, you can even call me Mike. Do you think you can manage to use either one?" Val cleared his throat and sniffed. "Then you wouldn't have anything to be pissed at me about and we might actually get along." Michael stopped. "Would that be a bad thing?" Running his hands through his hair and rubbing his face, Val replied, "It'll give you one less excuse." "Excuse for what?" "Dumping my sister when things get too weird for you." Michael slumped into one of the wrought iron benches. This felt like a conversation he needed to have. "I love Casey. I'm not going to dump her." With a snort, Val folded himself into a corner at the far end of the bench. "What do you think of my cousins?" "They're friendly and funny." A little strange at times, but maybe those eccentricities came with money. "It's not the money. Money just paves the way to respectability." Val laughed at Michael's startled expression. "Come on, we're twins. If Kate has it, why wouldn't I?" "I thought," Michael stammered, "You know, because we're close." "Nah, she's really good at it. She can do something else, too." 62

"What?" Val leaned forward, talking earnestly. "She knows when a prediction is accurate." Michael laughed. "She can predict the future! Give me a break." Shaking his head, Val said, "No, she can't, but she knows a good guess when she hears it. Take her to Penn National. You'll pay your tuition, if you can get her to pick your card." "Racehorses? How does she do that? Talks to the nags?"" Casey's brother laughed and settled back comfortably. "She works the crowd, listening. I really don't know. I can't do it." "But you can read minds." Michael felt a little sheepish believing anything this conniver tried to sell. "Yep. Is it too weird for you yet?" Now, he saw the purpose of this little stunt. Val wanted to talk him out of a relationship with Casey by scaring him off with these strange tales and bizarre behavior. "Could be," Val admitted, again revealing his ability to sense Michael's thoughts. "Here's something else to remember −− I'm part of the package. I can't stop being her brother, just because you and she hit it off." That took some thinking about, but people did grow away from their families. Didn't they? "We don't," Val stated flatly. "Katie and I were raised in this house, by the girls' mother, Momma Sophie." Michael could hear the smile in his voice. "Nessa's brother, my uncle, brought Sophia back from Little Italy. God, what a dish." Val laughed at Michael's snort. "Well, she was. Deb looks like her, or at least my memory of her. I still remember the taste of her marinara sauce. She'd put a fingerful in my mouth and say 'Isn't that nice?'. I always agreed, but what I thought was nice was sucking on her fingers. "You are a sick ticket." Did anything not have a sexual connotation to Val? "Doe finished what Momma Sophie started. Giving Katie and I a place to come home to, when the shit hits the fan, or otherwise." "Yeah, they're nice folks. So, why then, are you out here?" Val's sigh indicated the effectiveness of Michael's comment. A long pause followed, in which Michael realized Val had started crying and, though trying, had been unable to stifle it. A few minutes passed. Sniffling, Val cleared his throat and spat into the grass. "God, I hate crying." He blinked and rubbed his eyes. "I'm tired. Sorry." "What's wrong?" Michael asked. Val tended toward mania, this seemed out of character. "But you don't know me too well. Do ya, sport?" Asshole Val was back in full form. "Sorry I asked." Michael stood, and stretched. "See ya." "Don't go, Michael," Val asked. Reluctantly sitting back down, Michael vowed to leave at the next insult or pissy comment. Val sat silently, watching the clouds scuttle over the moon. He finally pulled out a familiar pouch from his jeans' pocket. Michael groaned. "Get high with me, Michael. Pretend we're friends and I'll tell ya why I'm blue." He filled and lit the pipe, then passed it to Michael. Val still had good connections; the pot was potent. The dreamy feeling drifted over Michael on the second hit. The moon, nearly full, seemed to hover just out of reach. Val kept the pipe, apparently judging Michael mellow enough, finally saying, "Do you want to live forever?" "Sure, who wouldn't?" Philosophical discussions while stoned could be convoluted fun. "I wouldn't. The world changes, the changes come so fast. By the time I switched to color film, black and white became artsy again, but it was easy to go back." "Wait," Michael was bothered by the timetable. "Shhh," Val cautioned, handing over the pipe for another toke. Feeling relaxed and open, Michael let Val do the talking. "The worst part about living a long time is the people you lose. The people you love age and die, your lovers wither before your eyes. What began as a blessing becomes a..." "Curse?" Michael offered. "A burden, anyway." "Opt out." Val shook his head. "Nah, can't suicide." 63

"Mortal sin." A snort of contempt followed Michael's observation. "Hell, I don't know if there is a God but, if he exists, he's a foul tempered bastard with a twisted sense of humor. If I ever meet him I've got some pointed questions for him." In a passable impression of Ricky Ricardo, Val shouted at the wide sky, "Luuucccy! You got some 'splainin' to do!" Michael laughed. Val would shout in God's face if he got the chance. "You were raised what?" Val asked. "Mennonite?" "My grandparents were, but my parents are Methodist." "Did you go regularly?" Val passed the bowl again. "Uh−huh," Michael fought a cough and held his breath. Val drew a long hit. He never coughed. "Do you believe in God?" "Yeah." As the pause went on, Michael realized Val waited for more of an answer. "The natural state of the universe should be chaos. It isn't, therefore there is a force in opposition to entropy. Ergo, God exists." He thought it a pretty concise argument. Val laughed. "A mathematical proof of a higher power. You are something. I wonder how we will fit into your neat little equation." He stood and handed the pipe to Michael. "Gotta check the hellions." Michael watched the night, thinking about Casey. Val returned bringing two sodas and a couple of cookies. Michael gratefully accepted the soda, and greedily devoured the cookies. "Munchy," Michael confirmed for Val's amusement. The sky had cleared and the moonlight painted the lawn in silvery tones, like a black and white photo. An owl glided across the further, briar−covered, uncultivated portion of the property. "Sophie was a devote Catholic." Val paused, sipping the soda. "Funny, if you think about it." "Why?" Catholicism didn't seem odd for an Italian. "A devout woman bore three bastard daughters and went on to foster the equally illegitimate children of her lover's sister." "Oh. I didn't know." Val shrugged. "Not a big deal in our family. Sophie insisted Katie and I attend Mass with her own daughters." Probably a good thing, Michael thought. Val chuckled. "I don't think the priests knew what to make of us. Katie and I found obscure religious principles to argue and would pester the poor guys with questions." "Trying to find faith?" "Shit no. Trying to seduce them." Val refilled the pipe. "We haven't changed one bit. Those who didn't fantasize about sweet, angelic−looking, little Katie had the incubus Tad visit their dreams. And the truly celibate ones −− the ones who prayed for us −− I wonder if they ever realized we weren't the children we appeared to be?" "Huh?" Michael felt fuzzy but, with a sudden insight, decided his confused state was exactly what Val had wanted. The door behind them opened and Mark came out. "Here you are." "Hey, Mark." Val slid down the bench and patted the seat. "Join us?" Mark sniffed. "Jesus, Linda would kill me," he said, but sat down and took a deep hit. "Wow. Long time, Tad." He coughed. "Really long time." A hit or two later, Mark repeated, "Lin will be pissed." "Nah. She adores you and will attribute this minor deviation, correctly, to my bad influence." "You think?" Val chuckled. "Come on. You know I know. She loves you. You don't need me to tell you." "No, but independent confirmation is nice." Michael sniggered. "You sound like she's a stock you're considering buying." Val agreed, "Michael's right. Quit worrying, love isn't logical or measurable." "I sit with the person most likely to know for sure. I have to ask," Mark said. "Linda's been different lately. Restless." 64

"Do you really want me too close to her?" Val said, the inference clear. Mark choked slightly. "Don't. Okay?" Val sneered. "You know me," he said in a low menacing tone. "You brought her to meet Katie and I, but you didn't tell her anything. With Michael here off−limits, Linda is a tempting surrogate." Off−limits? Michael wondered what that meant. "Don't," Mark pleaded, took a deep breath and continued, "Ah, shit. Do what you want. Choose your games carefully. You know what they say: You can pick your friends, but you can't pick your family. When there's no place left for you to go −− go home." "Fine. Warn her." Val extended his arms over the back of the bench. His warmth radiated through Michael's sweatshirt and reminded him of Casey's fever. Michael pulled away as Val stroked his neck. "Here I sit with my two favorite males −− an interesting ménage a trois, at least until Kurt grows up." Michael expected a fatherly explosion for the lewd remark but Mark calmly took a drag of the pot, and then passed the pipe across Val to Michael. "I'm taking pictures of your wife and kids tomorrow. Any requests for a particular position?" Val continued to try to anger Mark. "So who do you like for Sunday's games?" Mark said to Michael, ignoring Val. "Living in Baltimore, I guess I should root for the Colts." "In Placid you gotta cheer for the Steelers or the Bills, but I was brought up an Eagles' fan." Michael liked this game of overlooking Val's comments. Val's hand dropped to Mark's thigh. "'Course the real treasure will be Molly. What do you think, Michael? Fifteen years?" "The Colt's are okay this year, but the Steelers will take it." "Probably." Michael passed the pipe back again, but Val intercepted Mark's hand. Ignoring the murmured protest, Val pulled Mark's wrist to his mouth. Michael could only watch as the teeth (which, in a painful admission to himself, he'd known were there) entered the artery. A low moan issued from Mark. Val's tongue eased the spot where the small scratches oozed another drop or two. Michael, mesmerized, watched the protracted kiss that followed. Knowing what color Val's lips would be and wishing to avoid the temptation, he dragged his eyes back to observe the lights of Philly glimmering in the distance. "God, Tad. Of all the things I hate about you that's must be the one I despise the most," Mark whispered. "Oh? Or, like Katie's stud here, only wish you hated it?" Val replied, releasing his hold on Mark's wrist. "You could ask." "Don't you mean beg?" Val's cynicism crackled with an icy edge. In low supplicating voice he said, "Hey Markie, please play with me. Can I feed from your neck where your blood is the warmest and your scent makes me weak with desire?" Val stroked Mark's throat with his fingertip. Mark pulled away with a start. "Yeah, I thought so. You mean beg," Val said, angrily. "Look. I know our hostility makes it easier for you to leave us, but could you wait until Sunday morning to piss off my dad?" "So I should wait until breakfast to fuck your mom?" Val challenged. Mark stalked away muttering, "Jesus." Glass rattled in a door further down the patio. The sound of it released Michael from his paralysis. He stood and backed away. Val turned his attention to the other former occupant of the bench. "Run, sport. I told you we are too strange for your world." The malignant laughter polluted the darkness and, to Michael, the brightness of the kitchen felt like a balm to the wound Val caused with his cruel intentions and disparaging words. The party, minus Mark, Linda and the children, had migrated to the kitchen, winding down with milk and cookies. Casey took one look at Michael's face and gathered him close to her. Val sauntered in a moment later. "Hey Tad, I need a ride home," Deb called. Meeting Michael's appalled gaze, Val put on a charming smile. "My eternal pleasure and great honor, sweetcakes. Let me get my keys." "Mr. Charles will drive her," Dona said, catching his arm as he passed. "It's his job, after all." Val shook his head. "No such thing as a free lunch, Doe. Cash, grass, or ass. We all pay for the ride." This remark earned a stern look from Rob, who began a comment. "Don't go there, Robbie. Don't even presume to 65

act the wise elder. We all know that's bullshit." Silence descended upon the previously happy group. Casey's voice cut through the stillness. "Val!" She strode across the room and embraced him. "Shhh," she consoled him as he accepted her arms with a strangled sob. He buried his face in her neck, oblivious to the rest of the room's occupants, nuzzling. At the sight of the sharp teeth, Michael moved toward the couple. He felt a soft restraint on his arm. Doe's firm but gentle hand rested there, holding him back. She shook her head and drew his head to her shoulder, preventing his witness to the subsequent passionate kiss, which, he knew, in no way resembled one between siblings. Michael regretted the earlier use of grass, knowing himself too impaired to think clearly. Doe's fingers in his hair soothed him, allowing him to forget for the moment −− be unaware of where he was and what was happening. Michael heard Deb's voice, "Poor baby. You're tired." He looked up to see Casey, Val, and Deb standing in a close triangle. "Katie, let me. You have other problems." The older woman indicated Michael with a tilt of her head. "Come on, Tad. Time to sleep." She led him away, acting more like a mother than the lover Michael, finally, admitted to himself she'd been and probably still was. Casey advanced on Michael, who shook his head and backed away. He slipped around the butcher's block, fully aware he was running, a coward in front of witnesses. He saw no disapproval or disgust in any of the faces looking at him, only a commiserating pity. Michael stumbled blindly from room to room, only stopping because he had nowhere to hide. Casey found him sitting on the staircase, waiting for her, and the forgetfulness she'd bring. She sat behind him and covered his back, wrapping her warmth around him. He could feel the weight of her head on his shoulder. "Now you know." Yeah, he knew and had been much happier in his ignorance. "Do it, Casey. This night I want to forget," he said, tilting his head to bare his neck to her teeth. She nuzzled his neck, but didn't feed. "I can't. Val could, again, but he's not feeling helpful." Again? Something better staying forgotten, Michael felt sure. "Why not you?" Even in his misery, his curiosity flared. Her lips on his neck felt comforting and their movement as she murmured stirred him. "Your tolerance to my venom increases each time. Pretty soon it'll barely bother you. Only a buzz, not a rocket." "I want to go home," he said. If he couldn't have forgetfulness, being unhappy at home would be better. Casey moaned. "Stick it out, please. 'Til after the family party on Saturday. I can fix it then." "How? How can this be fixed?" "If Luke comes to the party, he'll help me. If not, well, I'll ask Val." "Cash, grass, or ass. What will he want?" Michael laughed bitterly. "I ain't got the first two choices available. The price might be way too high for me, babe." "Don't borrow trouble. I'll work it out." She led him to her bedroom. A couple hours ago, he would have expected a nominal effort to place them into separate rooms. Now, three hours older and a thousand years smarter, Michael didn't question the presence of both suitcases. These people had bigger things to hide than premarital sex. He showered, the water sobering him. Time to think and decide. She toweled his back then tucked him in the big double bed. She left the bathroom light burning and the door ajar. "In case you wake up −− so you'll find your way." Her warmth made cuddling as cozy as an electric blanket but softer. "If you ever visit at my house, don't expect to sleep with me. My mother will put us in separate rooms until we're married −− and maybe even then." Casey gave him an odd look. "You're ready to run, but then you talk about me visiting your parents." "Jesus, Casey. I'm stoned, confused, scared, and sometimes totally stupid, but I love you. Being in love with a blood−sucking vampire takes a little to get used to, and your family may take a bit longer." The amused disbelief in her face made him feel as if maybe he could deal with this stuff. If Doe, Rob, Mark, and the others could, why couldn't he? Sleep would come easily. Dreams would be eerie. "What's up with Val?" Michael asked, drowsily. "He doesn't like his duty and wants to be done with it." She massaged his hands, truly a fine way to fall asleep. "Quit?" he suggested. "Oh, Michael. He can't. He can no sooner quit that than quit..." 66

"Needing blood?" "Or being a wise mouth." "What's the job?" She fell silent. Her answer, he supposed. He didn't want to know. His body felt as heavy as lead. But could lead float? Michael's dreams were disjointed and confusing, but not scary. The clearest one involved Casey introducing Christopher Lee as a really nice guy she'd met in karate class.

The slamming of a drawer woke him. Casey strode around the room half−dressed in a dark serious skirt and pale linen blouse. A matching jacket hung on the doorknob. She hopped to slip on one shoe, then the other. She muttered to herself. He could catch a word or two −− late and dammit. "Morning, sunshine," Michael yawned around his words. Casey stopped rummaging for a moment, smiled at him and then opened another drawer to repeat the process. "Lose something?" he asked, slipping out of the bed and heading toward the bathroom. She stood hands on hips, glaring around. "My old glasses." New one to him and he continued about his business. "Since when do you wear glasses," he called. "When I'm trying to look older, more serious. Ahh!" She burst into the bathroom and, pulling a case from the top shelf of the medicine case, produced said spectacles. Placing them on the end of her nose, she asked, "What do you think?" "Effective, especially the unbuttoned blouse. Whatever you're selling, I'll buy two." He ran a finger down the silky edge of her bra to tickle her nipple into hardness. "Oh. Nope." She pulled away, buttoning the front and tucking in the tails. "I'll be back around three or so, plenty of time to play before the party." Something in his face slowed her down. "What?" "You've never said no before," he said, perching on the end of the bed. "I promise not to make a habit of it, but I am so late. I hope the flight was delayed. Where's my jacket?" Michael pointed. "Thanks. Leave your nice clothes on the chair; someone will press them. Breakfast is kind of informal, but you ought to wear something more than your smile." Casey laughed. "Please be nice to Val today, if you can." She slipped on the jacket and opened the door, the voices of children lilted in the hallway. "Books in the den, TV in the basement, bikes in the garage, or there used to be." She dashed back across the room and, ignoring his morning breath, kissed him properly, said, "Bye, I love you," and was gone. Dressed in jeans and a tee shirt, Michael felt chilly. He pulled out a flannel shirt, adopting a defiant attitude. If flannel made him a country hick, so be it. Comfort counted. Apparel discord seemed to rule the dining room, Michael discovered. The Grisomes' and the MacKenzies' attire covered the spectrum from the pjs and bunny slippers of the children, to the suit and tie worn by Mark. Deanne and Dona were planning to go shopping and were, much to Michael's surprise, dressed pretty closely to how his own mother would have to go to Donecker's or Watt Shand's with her friends, or his Aunt Mary. The men invited Michael for a round of golf, but seemed just as happy when he declined. Linda wandered in, also in flannel −− her nightgown and robe. Her blond hair was tousled and she rubbed sleep from her eyes. "Should have woken me, honey. The kids..." "Are fine, Lin," Deanne interjected. "Eat some breakfast, then go get beautiful for your photo session." "Is Tad up?" Linda asked. She helped herself from the silver warming trays to a big breakfast. Michael saw a hint of worry cross Mark's freshly shaven face. Rob nodded. "Yes, and feeling better, I think. At least he didn't actively seek to annoy anyone this morning. He ran Deb home." "Coffee, honey?" Mark asked. "Tea?" she requested, smiling when he nodded. "I'll be back around four. I scheduled a light day, I tried to not have anything but..." He shrugged, clearly reluctant to leave her here with his predatory cousin. "I promised to be Tad's go−fer today, Mark. Help keep the kids occupied, hold lights." Michael said, trying to sound disingenuous and chatty. Dona picked up on the message before Mark did and smiled at his effort. "I don't really know what use I'll be but I can stand around and watch as good as the next guy." Mark 67

heard the hidden message in Michael's words and, meeting his glance, nodded. The household quieted considerably following breakfast. Rob and Mac left for golfing, Deanne and Dona for shopping, Mark for work. Linda herded the children toward baths, tooth brushing, and clothing. Mellifluous Spanish−sounding melodies and the chatter of strange voices floated from the direction of the kitchen and, when Michael returned to Casey's bedroom, a young woman had stripped the bed and had an armful of new linens in her grasp. "Sir?" she asked. "Nothing, I just needed this." Michael grabbed his backpack containing his study books and notes. He found a quiet corner in what Casey called the den −− more like a library, he thought. Cushy leather chairs were arranged either to read by sunlight near the tall windows, or positioned beneath convenient lamps. Sitting in the big desk chair behind the massive desk made Michael remember his high school principal, Mr. Shaub. A stern disciplinarian and tough teacher on the rare occasions he had been called upon to substitute, the thick wild eyebrows and invariably crooked bowtie earned him the sobriquet Uncle Gizmo by his students. During Michael's junior year a Math Club had been formed in which Mr. Shaub had acted as mentor. Never well attended, by the end of May most of the meetings were attended by only Michael and the principal. Michael learned two things in the final couple of meetings before summer. First, Uncle Gizmo was a good teacher and pretty fair mathematician. Second, the gruff exterior camouflaged a caring and decent man, who loved the nickname he had been given. Michael had finished the task of reading the essay and had begun copying notes. Highlighting the passages would be easier but the college bookstore would give him at least five bucks for the book, if in good condition and if Dr. Hayden planned on the same text for next semester. The click of the doorknob interrupted Michael. One of the large chairs interrupted his line of sight, but the words of the whispered conversation carried well in the narrow room. He pushed the chair back to discover the identity of the intruders −− Val and Lin. Michael swore under his breath. Hadn't Val promised? At least an implied promise. He had told Mark to warn her −− of what? To stay away, or of the family secret? Perched on one of the heavy tables, Val had Linda caught between his knees, holding her close with his hand on her rump. Her hands rested on Val's chest, smoothing the folds of his shirt. "No, Tad," she said, but didn't pull away. Inching the material of her skirt higher, Val teased, "Then why did you come in here with me?" "To say no." Her statement sounded like a question to Michael. Val picked one of her hands off his chest, kissed the palm and then her wrist. Her fingers with their delicate pink nails curled on his cheek. "Beautiful," Val whispered, moving his lips against the sensitive skin in the curve of her elbow. "Ugly, fat," she whispered back, her hand now drawing him closer instead of acting as the barrier she'd intended. "Curvaceous, exquisite," Val insisted, stroking her now bared thigh. "Please," she begged, whether for him to stop or hurry, Michael couldn't be certain. He tried to think of a way to interrupt without embarrassing them. Embarrassing Linda, anyway. Val wouldn't be ashamed. With a muffled cry, she surrendered. Trailing kisses across her cheeks and into the curve at the base of Linda's neck, Val suddenly raised his eyes to look straight at Michael. An acid smile formed on the handsome face and Val gently kissed the pulsing carotid before returning to her lips. Finally, she turned her face away. The sound of running footsteps reached Michael, her children's voices calling for her. "Let me go, Tad." "Promise me." he said, sounding earnest. "I can't. I won't do anything to hurt Mark," she claimed, pulling away and straightening her dress. Linda walked toward the door. "I can still take your picture?" Val asked in a beseeching tone. Linda nodded. "Molly will be up in an hour. She's usually pretty happy." Mark would wonder why if no pictures were forthcoming. Val gave her a wane thumbs up, "Attic, about an hour." He maintained the brave disappointed attitude until the door snapped shut behind her, and then briskly traversed the room to collapse in the chair nearest to Michael. 68

Giving a deep sigh and crossing his arms, Val regarded Michael with a mixture of contentment and disdain. "You are a shit," Michael declared. Seducing Mark's wife had to constitute a new low, even for Val. Val raised his eyebrows. "At least I participated. You always seem to be a spectator. Is that how you get your jollies?" Gathering his books and notes Michael refrained from a retort. Val snatched the essay pages from the pile. "Go ahead, rain your displeasure on my head," Val invited. Michael leaned against the desk, waiting. Refused to be drawn into this discussion. "Guess what, sport. You're wrong. I wasn't seducing Linda." "Sure looked like it." Michael instantly wished he had chosen an alternate phrasing because of the amused look which flitted across Val's face. Val held out the pages, Michael reluctantly took them, slipped them into his pile and started packing his book bag. "Three kids in less than six years, fifteen pounds heavier than her wedding day. Her life consists of Mr. Rogers, Itsy−Bitsy Spider, building blocks, Tonka trucks, and sandboxes. Once a month she farms out the kids, and gets dolled up to out with Mark. Dinner and a movie. Sometimes they go dancing, then go upstairs and bounce like bunnies. She's feeling fat and unappreciated, as if her youth is escaping her." Michael listened but didn't buy it. "Right, so altruistic 'Tadder' makes it his crusade to change all that by boffing her." "I have no chance with her −− unless I would really work at it." Val picked up a pencil that had rolled under his feet. "And you won't?" Michael asked. "I can't follow you all day." Val whirled the pencil between his hands creating an irritating clacking noise. Michael reached to seize it and Val grabbed his wrist. Jerking only tightened the tenacious grip. "Of the twenty plus rooms in this house, not to mention the attics and basements, I just happened to choose the one you were in?" Val released his hold unexpectedly, letting Michael stagger backwards. "I also volunteered you to help me in the photo session. Yeah, I want get her horizontal real bad." Val yanked out his baggie and paraphernalia and tossed it on the desk. "Get high, Michael. You're less stupid when you're stoned." Michael rubbed the reddened skin. "Then what? What's your game? Lining up lunch?" Val chuckled. "Not a bad idea. She should have been warned." It took all Michael had not to shrink away, as Val sprung lightly to his feet. He copped a pose, smirking slightly. "Look at me," he said in a mocking voice. "Am I not the epitome of male beauty?" "Or conceit?" Michael added, determined not to be the one to back down. Val continued as if Michael hadn't spoken. "I'm bad, a wild one. Pursuit by someone like me assuages her ego." Val laughed. "She will fuck Mark's brains out tonight." Michael turned back to his book bag, zipping it, muttering under his breath. Val ran his fingers up Michael's back, who froze, then batted the intruding hand away. "Hands off," he seethed. "Touch me again and I'll..." Val adopted an expectant look. "Hurt me? Beat me up? What makes you think you can?" Bending closer, he whispered in Michael's ear, "I'm stronger and faster than you are. Don't try it. Just ask Rob." "Ask me what?" Rob stood at the doorway. He crossed the room, opened one of the desk drawers and rummaged through it. Val sat back down, attempting nonchalance Michael thought, but wary. These two had some uncomfortable history. Rob pulled out a manila folder and Val relaxed noticeably. "No golf?" Val asked. "Rain," Rob said by way of explanation. "What should Mike ask me, Tad?" Turning his head to look out the window, registering the rain slipping down in soft gray veils, Val replied, "Why he shouldn't fight me." "Ah! That." Rob spied the baggie of pot and the ornate little pipe. Picking it up and tossing it to Val, he ordered, "Put it away." Val complied mutely. Whatever Val had implied, it was obvious to Michael that Casey's brother did fear 69

Rob a little because the bag disappeared promptly. "You know Doe doesn't allow smoking in the house." Which didn't quite match with what Michael's own father would have said. Rob sat down in the desk chair, resting his elbows on the arms, rocking slightly and, tenting his fingers, exhibited nothing but confidence. "Well, Mike. Tad is right, he is stronger and faster," Rob replied evenly, "He likes fighting." He pulled a tangle of metal rings and leather thongs from his pants pocket, which he tossed over the desk to Michael. "Ever seen one of these?" Untangling the strings took a moment −− longer −− since Michael could feel Val watching him. Rob, though, hadn't taken his eyes off Val's face. "Can you remove the largest ring without cutting the cord?" Rob asked. "Uh?" Michael studied the little puzzle. "Yeah." He slipped the rings from end to end, backtracked once and, with a tiny glow of satisfaction, removed the large loop. Cool. Rob held out his hand for the pieces. With the assurance of much practice he reassembled the maze. "How about you, Tad?" Smiling, he tossed it to Val. It hit him in the chest and slid to his lap disregarded. Val glanced at Rob, then at Michael. He returned his attention to the rain. "Oh, that's right. You can't." Rob rose from the chair, stretched. "Well, let's get this over, Tad." Michael almost felt sorry for Val as a panicky, trapped look came into his face. Rob perched on the arm of Val's chair and pushed up his sleeve. "Elbow or wrist, boy?" He smoothed back the unruly lock of hair hanging over Val's forehead. "Here's the deal, Mike." Val closed his eyes, looking half−sick. "Tad prefers to take what he wants, but if he turns me down now, then, in what passes for viraran etiquette, he can't force me later." Contempt and desire battled for control of Val's face. Michael could see Val's hands trembling. Abandoning his book bag, Michael escaped toward the hallway and safety, leaving the sadistic little tableau. Rob's words followed him. "The offer stands 'til Mike gets to the door." Michael heard something between a groan and a snarl break from Val's throat and, as he closed the door, Rob's grunt of discomfort. He waited outside, a few yards down the hall, on a chaise fit for a fainting princess. The heavy brocade invited his fingers to follow the pattern from one curlicue to the next. Why he waited hadn't occurred to him yet, but Rob's callousness had made him sorry for and curious about Casey's brother −− and his position as black sheep of this family. When the library door opened, Val stomped out. "Don't slam it." Rob called. Michael could feel the plaster shake and hear the picture frames rattle as Val did just that. Glaring for a moment at the man behind the closed door, Val, at long last, turned away. His lips were full and red from the blood and his face high with the color of anger and shame. He espied Michael before taking more than a few steps toward the stairway to the second floor, hesitating mid−stride. He squatted down on the floor next to the chaise with a sigh. Rocking on his heels, Val let his head bounce on the wall just hard enough to sustain the rocking. "Wha...?" Michael began. Val's hand came up, slightly trembling still. "Shh." Val swayed, eyes closed, a few more times, gradually coming to rest with his head on the wall. The hectic color drained slowly from his cheeks, leaving his lips redder in the comparison. Michael opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it with a snap. Without changing position or opening his eyes, Val said in a singularly emotionless tone, "Go ahead. Ask." Now, with permission, Michael had forgotten his original question, but quickly thought of another. "What was that about?" In the averted manner, which so reminded Michael of Casey, Val looked at him. "What do you mean?" Risking a show −− and he now realized it was mostly show −− of temper, Michael asked, "Are you afraid of him?" For a long minute, Val didn't answer, just regarded him with an increasingly pensive expression. He stood abruptly and shrugged. Gesturing for Michael, he walked slowly toward the stairway. "I don't know," Val said. 70

Michael shook his head. "How can you not know?" Sighing, Val stopped dead. He stared up at the high ceiling and clicked his tongue a few times, thinking. At length, he let out an explosive breath. Placing his hand on Michael's shoulder, Val pushed him toward the stairs. "The problem with knowing exactly what people want is that at some point I can't be sure if I really feel the way that I think I feel, or if I feel this way because it is what they want me to feel." Val fixed Michael with an earnestness that surprised him. "Get it?" What a trap, Michael thought, nodding his understanding. Anger might be the only emotion that Val knew to be his own. "Yeah." Val agreed. The sound of the library door silenced him and they listened as footsteps went the other direction. "Maria," Rob called loudly toward the kitchen. A muffled acknowledgment followed. "Where do you keep Band−Aids?" Val smiled sardonically. "But he is the only one who needs a bandage when I'm done." The gallow's humor of the other's small act of revenge caught Michael by surprise and he laughed loudly. Val covered Michael's mouth with the palm of his hand, but the only sounds came from the kitchen at the far end of the hall. Val removed his hand and startled Michael with a hard kiss still tasting metallic from Rob's blood. Val resisted only slightly as Michael pushed him away. Annoyed, Michael exclaimed, "Now why'd you have to do that? We were getting along so great!" Throwing up his hands, Val replied, "Rob won't let me finish the circle." "Why me?" Michael said, wanting to spit. What circle? Bite and kiss? "Yeah. Sorry. You were handy," Val admitted with a go−to−hell and far from apologetic grin. "I tried not to −− and almost made it −− but you are so damn kissable." Michael made a disgusted face and a noise to match. Sobering slightly, Val patted Michael's shoulder. "Thanks." Seeing the retort forming on Michael's face, he clarified, "Not for the kiss, I stole that −− I mean thanks for waiting for me." With a smile completely lacking in guile, sarcasm, or any hidden meaning, Val called a truce between them. Michael nodded. "Okay, you're welcome. Don't kiss me anymore. All right?" "I won't make promises I can't keep." Val forestalled an argument by continuing, "I will promise not to have someone else's blood on my lips if I do −− at least when you're sober." A twisted partial promise with enough loopholes to qualify for federal approval. "God, you are an asshole," Michael said, wonderingly and with a little admiration for the sheer contrariness of him. "Yeah, but, for what it's worth, remember I am pretty much what you expect me to be." There's something he hadn't considered. "Casey too?" Val shook his head and began the climb to the second floor. "No, I'm the empath. She's the prognosticator." "Oh." "Come on. We need props and stuff for Linnie's pictures." Val trotted up the remaining stairs. "What color underwear did she have on?" he asked, off−hand. "Blue," Michael said before thinking. Val's laughter mocked him. "I knew you would notice." They collected an esoteric variety of items. Michael saw no rhyme or reason, but just carried what the artist handed him, a good go−fer. At the end of a short side corridor, Val opened a door like all the others. Stairs led upwards to the gabled and turreted attic. The walls had been left as unfinished drywall and the floors were massive old planks, settled and smoothed by the passage of time and many feet. The nearest gable served as Val's studio. Trunks and pillows, chairs and cushions, hats and feather boas, old−fashioned lace tablecloths and a rainbow of colored backdrops lined the edges of the space. "With all the room in this house, why the attic?" Michael asked, heaving his burden on top of one chair. Val looked around, surprised. "No like?" He paused in the unpacking of the heavy sided case containing his cameras. He stood silently, staring at Michael. "Here, I'll show you why." He crossed to the backdrops and 71

pushed them aside, hitching his head at Michael to follow. Behind the drywall was a small room, more a closet. A high shelf filled the upper half, reached by climbing four boards attached for the purpose. Michael clambered to the shelf where Val had swung open a large moon window. The view encompassed the entire walled community and farther. Val reached for a pair of binoculars, which hung by a strap from a nearby hook. He scanned the panorama slowly. "For thirty years, Casey and I lived like fugitives in this house." He handed the glasses to Michael. "Don't take that the wrong way. Making friends with people who keep growing up is difficult." Michael, whose lists of questions begin to scroll at the last comment, remained quiet and looked through the binoculars. "Go away to school for a term or two, get kicked out. Come home and have a tutor for a while, 'til one or the other of us succeeded in scaring him or her away. Being eleven is bad enough just once, I'm sure. Try it for a decade or two." Michael could see lawns and gardens, driveway basketball keys and tennis courts. "You and Casey are old, aren't you?" Val shook his head. "Nah, we're young, pubescent, as a matter of fact." "Huh?" "You are the master of clever conversation." Val's insults had lost some of their impact. "In the scheme of things, she and I are just maturing, becoming full adults." "Long childhood, long adolescence. Longer life?" Val slipped off the platform, landing lightly. "Close the window, we got business." Michael could hear the piping voices of the children on the stairs. Watching Val was an education. He beguiled the children into relaxed poses and set Linda at ease, combining light flirtation with cool professionalism. The first series of shots were formal, Michael thought, capturing faces but having none of Val's flair. He wound the film in the camera as Val beckoned to Molly. Val sniffed. "Hey, stinky girl." Molly giggled as Val picked her up. "Oh!" Linda struggled out from behind Tess. Val waved her back. "I can do this," he said and carried her down the stairs. "Reload, Michael." When he brought Molly back, she wore only a diaper. Val handed a white bundle to Lin. "You and Tess change." He indicated a screen in the next gable. "Miss Molly, you stay right here." He sat her on a low stool, pulled a long blue lace ribbon from a drawer and tied a loose bow around the baby's head. Molly tried to pull it free but Val captured her hands. "Now Molly, I thought we had a bargain," he said. Kurt giggled. "She don't talk or listen too good, Uncle Tad." "You think so?" He whispered in the little one's ear. Molly lost interest in the hair band. "Do your teeth hurt?" She had begun to chew her fingers, her former cheerful smile replaced by a cranky pout. Michael saw Val lick his finger and rub the toddler's sore gums. "Hey," Michael's objection slipped out. "Sophie used spit on the girls. Worked then, too." Val said, shrugging. "She knew babies." Molly had discovered the drawer full of ribbons, bows, and yarns. Her oohs and aahs punctuated each new handful. "I don't have to wear a ribbon, too?" Kurt asked, disdainfully. Val shook his head. "No way, big guy." He pulled out a pair of short white drawstring pants and tossed them over. "How about these?" Tess came back dressed in an eyelet lace jumper. "Mommy says you forgot something." "Tell your mommy I didn't." Tess's expression was adamant. "Never mind. You pick out a white hat." Val walked over to the screen. "Come out, Linda." "No. It's indecent." Val glanced over the screen, "Nah, you look very decent. Do you want another opinion?" He crooked his finger at Michael. Strangely, to Michael's point of view, Linda didn't mind being examined as long as she could remain behind the screen. Val had given her a heavyweight man's cotton shirt, which hung nearly to her knees, but the vents skimmed the tops of her thighs. 72

"Well?" she asked Michael impatiently. He shook his head. "Can't see anything I shouldn't." "Are you sure?" He nodded. "You look pretty." Val had returned to the backdrops and the kids. Tentatively, Linda stepped out. "I'm cold." "The lights are hot," Val called. She stood self−consciously at one side until Val pointed to the pile of pillows. "Sit." He poked and prodded her, directing patiently until he was satisfied. The kids wandered in and around. Val gave Linda a set of colorful rings. "Tess, Molly, look at what your momma has. Sit next to your mom, big guy." Other than exchanging one prop for another, Val did little to pose the children, snapping shots when something caught his eye. "A lot of film," Michael observed. "Yep, one masterpiece per roll." The self−deprecating grin appeared around the edges of the camera. Tess had chosen a wide−brimmed southern belle type hat. The pink and yellow ribbons trailed freely until Linda tied them in a big floppy bow. Molly threw handfuls of ribbon and lace into the air with happy shrieks of excitement. Kurt had found a set of pegs and a board to push them into. Val just moved side to side, occasionally directing Michael to move something or fluff a sleeve. His eyes moved more than he did, measuring. "Okay, last ones." Val had Linda lay back, Tess under one arm, Kurt under the other. Molly, who seemed destined for a career in front of a camera, fell across their laps, squealing and wriggling. Val finished the roll. "Okay kiddos. Go with Nydia and get some lunch." Val said. Michael hadn't noticed the young woman's arrival. Neither had Linda. She startled and blushed. Molly ran to the smiling maid and Kurt and Tess followed. "Wait Linda," Val ordered. He squatted next to her. "How about a couple of just you?" Her eminent refusal showed plain in her face. "Christmas present for Mark?" He ran a finger down the button placket. "I know he'd love it." Indecision replaced refusal. "Here, wear this." Val retrieved a silver fur coat, placing it on her lap. The luxurious pelts glimmered in the lights. Linda's hands moved over the sensuous, opulent ripples. "Promise, no funny stuff. Michael's your bodyguard, the lucky shit." Linda giggled nervously and they both looked at Michael. Val solemnly crossed his heart and held up his hand in an oath. "Okay." The answer held reservations but a certain excitement. Linda returned to the safety of the screen. Michael whispered, "What are you doing?" Val gave a face of total innocence. "Me?" He laughed and began to rearrange the set to some inner specifications. "Nothing, I promised. Now help." Keeping up a light line of banter, Val applied some make−up to Linda's face. Try as he might to hide it, Michael's amusement bubbled over in snickers. Val ignored him. He held up a mirror to let Linda see his work. "Oh!" Linda exclaimed. Michael had to admit the results, while subtle, were impressive. "One more thing," Val painted her lips from a tube from his case. The breath caught in Michael's lungs, as Linda smiled at him. "Nice?" she asked. Michael managed some reply, he hoped. The color was perfect, the exact shade of Casey's −− or Val's −− lips after feeding. He turned away to reload one of the cameras, hiding his involuntary reaction −− an erection. Val posed Linda, and then crossed to examine the aesthetics from the camera's perspective. "Problem, sport?" he whispered. Michael glanced at Linda as Val directed her; turn, straighten, tilt chin, no −− the other way. Hands down, now up, palms forward, wrist rotated. Relax. Relax. Relax. Finally, Val stopped and froze with his arms crossed, a stern frown cemented on his face. He shook his head. "This isn't working." Linda asked, "What?" "You and your steel trap knees. Look..." Val stopped. "Never mind." A blush crept into her cheeks. "I'm trying." 73

Val shrugged. "You're wasting my time." A flash of anger brightened her eyes. "Tell me what to do." "I'm trying," he mimicked, and then sneered. "You're far too busy proving that you're not an easy lay." The anger returned and stayed. "You son−of−a−bitch. What's that supposed to mean?" Two quick steps brought him to her. Firmly, he wrenched her knees apart to kneel before her, forcefully pulling her hips against his. He kissed her; Michael heard her cry of consternation change to a low passionate moan under Val's lips. Michael coughed, hoping to interrupt. "Now, don't move," Val murmured, pulling away. He slid back and the shutter clicked. "Give a welcome to lure your man. Don't be a bitch−kitten wanting favors." The tenseness left Linda's shoulders and legs. She followed Val's instructions as if she hadn't resisted before. Michael wondered if she got it, or if the venom in his kiss had converted her. The next roll of film went quickly. Linda's bra and panties were blue.

Casey and Mark arrived within minutes of each other. Val had disappeared after the grueling photo shoot, but returned in time to accept Casey's challenge to whip her at tennis. "I need to sweat, Michael," she said as they strolled out to the courts. The sun had mostly dried the puddles from the morning's shower. Mark joined them moments later. "Linda's napping with Molly," he said, catching Michael's eye. "She had a rough morning," Michael explained. "Lots of pictures." "Ready?" Casey asked. "Mark, you're with Val. Come on, Michael." He groaned. "I suck at this." Val laughed. "So does Mark." Mark made a face. "Ha, ha. Let's go, jerk." Two sets later, Mark joined Michael at the net. "They're playing homicide rules." Each of them had been struck repeatedly by well−placed intentional shots hit with amazing force. "I'm sitting the next one out." Michael nodded and signaled time−out at Casey. "Okay, the dead weight has been cleared off. Bring it on, darling," Val yelled at Casey. She smiled and slammed an ace down the line. Michael was certain Val couldn't reach it in time, but he did, sliding to a stop, reversing to return the next hammered shot from Casey's racket. "Damn. They're good." Mark snorted. "Yeah." He popped open a beer and passed it to Michael, before opening one for himself. He drew a big gulp with a sigh, and then muffled a burp. "Olympic gold." Michael watched as each shot was returned, back and forth. Val drove one by Casey finally. After another hotly battled volley, Casey got it back. "Val will win," Mark stated. "He wants it more and is stronger." "They should play the circuit," Michael said, awed. "Nah, they won't show this to outsiders. Downplay and hide. Camouflage and disguise." Michael thought of Casey's karate match. She could have flattened that muscle−bound instructor had she even used part of her speed. "They don't like to be noticed, attention draws questions." "I noticed Casey, immediately," Michael said. "You noticed she's sexy, not that she's a different species." Species? Okay, that should have been an obvious conclusion. Mark finished his beer. "So what happened today?" "Val took her picture, with and without the kids. Expect a damn nice Christmas present." "Yeah, he's talented." Casey slid to a stop and reversed directions as Val pounded shots down one side then the other. They didn't appear to be having any fun, intensity burned in their eyes and their lips were nearly as red as after feeding. "What's the circle?" Michael asked. 74

"One of their compulsive habits. An instinctual drive, I think. To feed then kiss, a sharing. It's not sexual." Mark grinned sheepishly as Michael made a noise of disbelief. "Not exactly, anyway. Blood, sex, and the circle are how they get their highs. Alcohol barely touches them. Val smokes pot only with company. He gets the buzz from the people around him, not from the THC. They need to touch and be touched −− another circle." "Your family secret definitely beats mine. Uncle Jerry's prison time barely seems to tickle the meter, compared to this." Mark chuckled. "Strong, healthy, and able to do anything they wanted. I used to wish I could be one. A viraran." "Viraran. A vampire?" Mark wrinkled his nose. "They don't like that name. Say viraran. Anyway, I grew up, and they didn't. Now I'm happy to be a second generation hybrid −− all the good stuff and none of the awful shit." "What awful shit?" Mark laid back his head, listening to the rhythmic pop of the ball at either end of the court. Michael could hear the panting of the players −− sweat drenched and driven −− and the squeak of their shoes. "I've seen them play 'til they couldn't stand. They can't give up." "You've met others?" Michael asked. "Only my grandfather. They don't like each other." "Huh?" "Viraran are not chummy together, like humans." "Casey and Val, uh, Katie and Tad are close," Michael argued. "They're twins. Yes, I know they have other names. Other lives, other disguises." "This is a disguise?" Michael asked. Val delayed his serve to wipe his face and chug the rest of Michael's beer. He returned to the line and blasted a serve with a grunt. Definitely not enjoying the match anymore. "I think so. I'd like to think it's one of the comfortable ones. Come on, let's end this." Mark stood. "I'll take Tad, you get Katie. Ask her to play a different game." The innuendo was clear. Michael chortled. She'd never say no a second time in the same day. "How will you distract Tad?" Mark shot him a disgusted look. "Don't be stupid. The same way." "Oh." Michael blushed, wondering about Mark's sexual preferences. "FYI, I'd rather play with Katie." Michael decided not to think too hard about that comment. By the time Michael had showered for the second time, Casey had dressed. She looked great. More than that, she looked expensive. He had sudden doubts about the suitability of his jacket. "Don't be stupid, you look fine." Michael fussed; he'd been accused of stupidity far too many times during the day, pulling away as she knotted his tie. "And if you really were stupid, you wouldn't be here and I definitely would not accuse you of it." She straightened his collar, smiling at him. "Now, tell me how wonderful I look." "Easy. You look FAHBulous, dollink." Casey froze him with mock severity. Michael sighed dramatically. "Let's see. Short skirt, long legs. Low neckline, sweet tits. Yep. You look wonderful." She wore a long−sleeved, snug jacket−dress with shiny flat buttons up the front. The fabric had subtle gold threads running through in an irregular pattern. A vee of her silky golden chemise peeked from between the lapels. Her shoes were a collection of gold straps crisscrossing her feet, adding a couple of inches to her height and definition to her shapely calves. A couple carats of gold and diamond jewelry hung from her wrists, ears and neck. Adding to the list of positive attributes was Casey's easy walk and stylish way of gesturing. Uncharacteristically she had applied make−up. To Michael's surprise, discomfort, and amusement, Mr. Charles chauffeured them in a long black Town Car. Not quite a limo but, for a kid from East Bohunk, a novelty. Casey asked questions about the photo shoot and the other events of his day. "Where'd you go today?" Michael asked. "To meet a man on family business. I have to decide whether I can work with him." 75

"What kind of business?" "A temporary alliance, a limited partnership." "For what." He was curious and the shorter her answers, the more certain he became of her evasions. "A new product." Casey sat forward. "Here we are." Michael thought he heard a certain amount of relief in her voice. Mr. Charles −− Michael wondered if the man had a first name, or a last name, as the case may be −− brought the behemoth to a gentle halt directly before the hotel's main doors. Casey put a restraining hand on Michael's arm. With a tiny shake of her head, she delayed him until the chauffeur had opened the door nearest to the curb to let Michael out. Catching on, Michael turned and extended his hand to aid Casey to her feet. He felt like a fraud, but Mr. Charles winked at him in approval. The driver reached inside the car and pulled out a fur that he handed to Casey's companion. Michael set it over Casey's shoulders, extended his elbow and escorted his rich bitch into the swank hotel lobby. The concierge met them a few steps from the entrance, welcomed Miss Zurin and Mr. Beiler, took Casey's wrap (the whole procedure took on the patina of stage dressing) and led them past the Delaware Room, the Allegheny Room, the Monongahela Room, to the Susquehanna Room. Dinner had just been served and, as they sat down, the waiter slid a plate before each of them, and another guy filled their wine glasses. Casey chatted easily with the man on her left, eating almost nothing but drinking most her wine. Michael felt her hand on his thigh, a warm presence in this utterly foreign atmosphere. The matronly woman on his right introduced herself as Mrs. Watson, asked his name and introduced her husband. The man, Dr. Watson, (never met Sherlock Holmes, he proclaimed with a friendly chuckle) taught at SUNY in Rochester. Genetics and Cell Biology, mostly, but had several research projects going for the NIH. The meal passed quickly, Dr. and Mrs. Watson pointing out people to him as if he should know the names and affiliations. The sound of a knife against a glass drew his attention, but an odd displacement had him looking for the bride and groom kissing. Casey stifled a laugh, so she hadn't forgotten him. The hand on his thigh patted softly. The man who tapped for attention cleared his throat and began a welcoming speech by saying he wouldn't take up much time. Always the kiss of death, Michael thought, letting his mind wander back to the end of the tennis match. Mark had seemed so matter−of−fact about his offer to Val −− could anything be that easy? Like doing laundry or dusting the bric−a−brac. Take out the garbage, feed and cuddle the vampire. Or viraran. He felt Casey squeeze slightly. The man at the podium appeared to be winding up his speech, having told a weak joke about the trials and tribulations of finding funding for research and brain trusts like this one. "It is entirely due to the beneficence of forward−looking corporations like the Ruiz Group that we can continue to network in such comfortable surroundings. I am happy to introduce a representative from the Group who has feted us and, better late than never, honored us by attending our closing banquet. Ms. Kate Zurin." Casey − Kate − stood and smiled. She proceeded to the microphone as if she had done so a thousand times. Michael noticed nearly every male eye followed that walk of hers. Warm applause delayed her response. She pulled the pair of glasses from the little purse in her hands. They made a serious comment and the clapping trickled off. "I am honored to be invited to such an assemblage of the finest scientific minds on the eastern seaboard. I do so wish I'd paid better attention in high school so I could comment more intelligently on the ideas I have heard here tonight. Bear with me." Michael would bet next term's tuition that every man in the room wished to bare with her. "The Ruiz Group will continue to fund this meeting and others like it. For us to flourish, humanity must prosper, so in you we see the beginnings for a better future." The round of applause interrupted her, but she had finished anyway. Michael's kind of speech, short flattery. The nervous guy stood back up to announce that cocktails would be served in Suite 1207 until eleven, followed by open bar and dancing in the ballroom. Casey slid back into her chair and waited with Michael until the room cleared out. "The Ruiz Group?" he primed. "The Ruiz Group is a conglomerate of viraran family businesses." "When you said the family business, I didn't quite picture a used car lot but I had no idea." "The Zurin part is not all mine. I have a big family." "The girls and their kids?" he asked. 76

Casey shook her head. "They are not exactly part of the House of Zurin." "Your viraran family." She nodded. "How about the Ruiz Group?" "Four houses, Rebarin, Uhrin, Ilerin, and Zurin." "What's a house? A family?" This was cool stuff. She looked slightly harried. "I can't explain now. It's more complicated." "Aren't we leaving?" She stood and unbuttoned her jacket, sliding it down her arms. The golden underdress, not a chemise as he had thought, followed every curve and concavity of her figure. Tiny straps topped her shoulders. A golden shimmering being, an Artemis, stood before him. "Damn, Casey. You are going to need barn boots to wade through all the drool." "Oh, yuck. Come on. Time to work the crowd." He ran an appreciative hand up the inside of her leg. Bare legged, no nylons and a moment later he confirmed another suspicion, not a scrap of underwear. Jeez. Casey moaned slightly, pushing forward against his fingers. Michael continued to caress and lightly probe, holding her steady with an arm around the firm swell of her rump. With her fingers kneading a rhythmic cadence on his neck and shoulder, he found the right speed and technique, which caused her trembling to crescendo. A lover's blush crept into the skin above her revealing bodice, climbing until her cheeks were bright with the same rosy color. Michael felt a sense of power, sort of a triumphant exultation as she climaxed, grabbing him tightly as her knees gave way. He stood up and held her as she gradually regained her balance and breath. With a small cry of resignation, Casey buried her face in his neck and delivered the barest of scratches, but her lips still held the color that so fascinated Michael. Her kiss held only the hint of metallic flavor, the merest trickle of his blood, but was full of her wordless passion. He could kiss her forever, oxygen a secondary consideration. A discreet throat clearing penetrated the abandon of the moment. Casey disengaged only the tiniest to acknowledge the interruption. Holding Michael's eyes with hers, exploring his face and lips with visual caresses, she said, "Yes?" The unctuous concierge hesitated before plowing ahead with his message. "Excuse me, Miss Zurin. The staff is wondering if you will be long? We need to set up the room for later." Casey slipped her hands down Michael's chest, smoothing and straightening his tie and lapels. "Suite 1207?" "Yes, miss." Stopping to scoop up her jacket, Casey swept from the room. Back on center stage, Michael thought. Ready for the work ahead. The concierge relieved her of the jacket and escorted her −− and her tag−a−long −− to the elevator. Casey's hand halted him. "I can find the way, thank−you." Michael pressed the button for the twelfth floor. "Does the elevator trigger an alarm if the emergency stop button is pushed?" Casey asked. Michael hid a smirk as the man caught her drift. "Pity," Casey commented at the startled man's nod. The doors slid closed. A mute chime marked the slow passage between floors. "Why am I here?" Michael asked, watching the numbers change as the elevator rose. Casey leaned against the front of the compartment, watching Michael as he counted off the floors. "These are exactly the sorts of people you need to know in order to accomplish those things you wish to accomplish." "You happened to be invited to a science convention?" He had a sneaking suspicion forming. "I'm invited every year," she said as the door slid open. Suite 1207 lay directly across the hall and she paused, waiting for Michael to open the door. As they entered the crowded room, she added, "However this is the first time I chose to attend." The ebb and flow of the human current carried her more quickly than it did him. Small wonder, he thought. Who wouldn't want to corral this golden girl? Michael found a quieter corner and accepted a glass of wine offered by a solemn young woman in a wintry white shirt and black trousers. Other similarly dressed waiters circulated with trays of fancy hors 77

d'oeuvres, or taking drink orders for those not drinking wine. Dr. Watson spotted Michael and, dragging his companion along behind him, zeroed in like a radar driven missile. "Kevin Grant, this is the table−mate I told you about. I'm sorry, young man, I've forgotten your name and my social secretary has installed herself on a sofa somewhere." Michael introduced himself, expecting to be bored silly within moments, but instead, found the ensuing conversation with Dr. Watson and Dr. Grant absorbing. Flattered by their interest in his ideas about the applications of computer technology to each of their fields −− gene mapping and three−dimensional representations of genetic constructs, Michael pontificated politely. Their input sent his mind shooting in a variety of directions and, wishing for pencil and paper, he strove to nail each idea into a permanent niche in his memory to think about later. "Your lady−friend is quite a charmer," Dr. Watson declared. Michael scanned the room, finally finding her in the throng. Standing close to a distinguished−looking, expensively dressed man, she had her hand on his arm and appeared to be listening intently. "Who's that?" Michael asked. Kevin glanced over and grimaced. "He's corporate." Dr. Watson elucidated further, forestalling Michael's next question. "Not a teacher or academic researcher, McGann works in the private sector." Watson shook his head as if corporate money carried leprosy. "Good money, but no prestige. His contract precludes publishing his findings, unless first cleared by his employer. First−rate mind closed in a patent−pending world." "First−rate or lucky," Grant disagreed. "I didn't find his early work all that impressive." Michael put the remark down as a sort of professional highbrow pissing contest as Watson took the dissenting position immediately. Excusing himself, Michael found the kitchen. "God, these old farts can pack it away. I think I've filled this tray fifty times." The kid was arranging small bacon−wrapped scallops on a clean doily. "Wanna switch?" another asked, then switched to a querulous, falsetto soprano, "Excuse me, waiter? I asked for three olives." They both sprung to attention as Michael stepped into view. He waved them back to their duties. "Any beer?" Michael asked. The one serving drinks opened a bottle and tipped it into a chilled glass, scraping the foam until the proper head remained. "Can I ask you something?" the waiter asked. Michael shrugged and took a hearty swig from the ice−cold glass. "You're not one of these guys, how'd you get invited?" "I'm somebody's escort," Michael admitted. Both young men turned to stare at him. "Not the fox in the gold dress?" Michael nodded. "Damn." They regarded him with a great deal of awe and envy. Another server, the young woman who had first offered Michael wine, burst in. "Come on, you guys. The natives are getting restless." She stopped in confusion upon seeing the trespasser from the guest side of the affair. Michael backed out. "I'm leaving, sorry." He found Casey sitting with an ancient relic of a fella who had a pronounced hand tremor. The old man's watery eyes worked just fine though. They kept darting to Casey's legs where her hemline had inched dangerously close to the edge of disaster, or heaven, depending on the point of view. Michael perched on the arm of the sofa next to his date and balanced there by resting his elbow on the back of the sofa. His hand hung over Casey's shoulder and when she inhaled the warm skin of her cleavage brushed his fingertips. The man's eyes changed their pattern, now dividing their gaze between Casey's legs, her face, and the place on her chest where Michael's fingers touched. "Michael, this is Dr. Huxton, professor of mathematics at Temple." Casey said. "Professor emeritus, my dear," he corrected gently. Casey shrugged, an exercise that both men watched with interest. "Doctor, this is Michael Beiler, also a mathematician. He's working in computers." There was a great deal about Dr. Huxton that reminded Michael of Mr. Shaub. The same eccentric 78

goofiness, which had given the nickname of Uncle Gizmo to his high−school principal, also emanated from this brilliant (Michael discovered quickly) if infirm theoretician. At some point, Casey's legs became less of a focal point and more of a nuisance. After following the first few minutes of the conversation silently, she scooted to her feet and wandered away to find another conversation −− one that included her. The metronome of her rump distracted both men momentarily. The tight little circles reminded Michael of another theorem, and the dialogue went on. The waiter brought Michael another beer and a small snifter of cognac for the professor −− the give and take between them slowed only minutely by the service. The discussion had gotten interesting when they became aware of Casey standing before them. Michael abruptly realized that the three of them were the last occupants of the once crowded room. "Good Lord! I haven't stayed up so late arguing these things in ages. It has been a pleasure, Mr. Beiler." The old man declined help and struggled with dignity to his slightly tottering feet. He shared the elevator to the sixth floor, declining to attend the dancing. "Ludicrous and ridiculous," Dr. Huxton muttered ferociously as he exited the elevator. He turned and smiled a warm good−bye as the door slid shut again. "Nice man, he liked my legs," Casey remarked. Michael wondered if she could possibly be as disingenuous as she sometimes sounded. "Case, if he were even ten years younger, he'd be in this cab trying to wrangle a dance and a quick grope or two." "I know, but he had his chance when I offered to help him to stand. He briefly pictured stumbling against me but discarded the idea," she recounted, "Mostly because I belong to you and you really impressed him." He hadn't been trying, but the observation pleased Michael. At the ground floor stop, Casey headed toward the hotel entrance. Mr. Charles waited just within and handed the fur coat to Michael to swaddle around Casey's bare shoulders. The driver opened the door and Michael held Casey's hand as she slipped gracefully onto the low seat. "Did you enjoy the evening, Mr. Beiler," Mr. Charles inquired, sounding genuinely interested. "Yes, I really did. Kind of different than a fraternity party, though," Michael confided. "Of that I am certain, sir," he said, ushering Michael into the comfortably warm car and closing the door with the perfect force to fasten it without slamming. A block away, Casey sat up with a start. "Mr. Charles, did you...?" she began. "Yes, Miss Katie. I retrieved the rest of your ensemble." Casey relaxed, cuddling into Michael's outstretched arm. "Good. Deb designed this dress for me and I would hate to lose part." Casey rolled her neck. "How much money did you take off the other drivers?" "A tidy sum, miss. Do you have any advice for investing my gains?" She thought a moment. "International Business Machines," she said. "They are moving from adding machines and tally devices to computer technology. Blue chip, but about to explode in market share." "I'll advise my broker first thing Monday morning." "I'm phoning mine tomorrow. Shall I place an order for you?" Michael conjectured that Casey's kind of money entitled her to the broker's home telephone number and the privilege of disturbing his weekend. "That would be exceedingly kind, thank you. Nine hundred and seventy dollars." Michael broke in, "You won a thousand bucks tonight?" Being a chauffeur/houseman was more lucrative than he had supposed. Mr. Charles nodded to him in the mirror. "How, in heaven's name, did you do that?" "I am an extremely good card player and, if luck fails, I cheat, sir." The confession blew Michael away. Was no one whom they seemed? "How do you know about IBM?" he asked Casey, who exchanged an entertained look with the driver. "I am an extremely good listener and, if luck fails, I cheat, sir." Mr. Charles chuckled at her imitation. Michael leaned back into the seat. Casey cuddled into his side, nuzzling his chin. "Mr. Charles, if you would," she requested. The chauffeur reached up and averted the mirror. She pressed against Michael's arm and whispered, "Now, finish what you began earlier." Feeling her fingers loosen his belt, he restrained her hand. 79

"Here?" he asked incredulously, glancing meaningfully at the back of the driver's head. Casey called out, "Severus, do you mind if we fuck in the back seat of your car?" With an equanimity that astounded Michael, the older man ignored her vulgarity and replied, "Your cousin's car, miss. If you prefer, I could park the vehicle and stand outside until you finish, Mr. Beiler." Michael could feel color rising in his cheeks, burning as hot as the kisses Casey continued to plant on his mouth, neck and, as she had already succeeded in loosening his tie and unbuttoning his shirt, on his chest. "Are you really going to make him stand out in the cold, Michael?" she breathed in his ear. As she pulled him over on top of her in the warm nest of her fur coat, Michael realized the decision had been made and, bowing to inevitability, took over as aggressor. The speed of passion overtook the speed of the car and, in a strange warping of continuity, the ride home lasted forever −− yet took no time at all. Michael awoke. The other side −− actually the middle, since she slept against his back usually −− of the big bed was empty. With no clock, he guessed it felt like two or three in the morning. The bathroom was empty, also. After pulling on a pair of sweats and a PSC sweatshirt, Michael tiptoed through the hallway. The house, silent and dark upon their return, hadn't changed in the few hours of sleep he'd gotten. The oak steps creaked slightly in his passage, the wood cool and sleek against his bare feet. Small bulbs set under the moldings shed enough light to safely navigate the halls and Michael could see brighter light fanning out beneath the door from the kitchen. The lights were on, but this room felt empty as soon as he stepped in through the swing−hinged door. Another door stood ajar at the far end and he could discern the sound of voices in the low rumbling echo behind it. The door opened on a set of stairs, not ornate, not Better Homes and Gardens stuff, but plain, pedestrian, wooden basement steps. Val glanced up as Michael, no longer bothering to be quiet, descended the stairs. "Hey," Val greeted, returning his attention to the TV across the room. The basement resembled Any Basement USA, Michael saw, the familiarity of it releasing the tension in his shoulders he hadn't known existed until then. An old monster movie, the usual middle of the night fare, played out a predictable script. The tacky costumes added to the camp and Michael plopped down on the incredibly ugly but comfortable sofa to watch. "Beer?" Val offered from the bucket of ice at his feet. "Or a soda?" "Soda." He chugged about half, before stifling the inescapable burp that carbonation always guaranteed. Val picked up a sheet of shiny papers and, using a magnifying glass, examined each square exhaustively. Occasionally he'd mutter something like okay, or damn, or all right, and would write a number on a tablet lying on the sofa's armrest. "What's that?" Michael asked. "Linda's proofs. I'm deciding which to print full−size." Val handed him a sheet and the lens. "Which do you like?" At first it was difficult to hold the glass and the proof sheet without a glare that prevented viewing, but once he found the proper angle the pictures leapt off the page at him. Michael thought most of them were good but, as Val explained what to look for, he began to differentiate between a snapshot and art. Val wrote down Michael's favorites: a close−up of Tess' face peeking from beneath the brim of the big floppy hat; Linda, in profile, looking at a boo−boo on Kurt's finger while the boy knelt on one knee like a bridegroom; Molly sitting in her mother's lap, gazing up while Linda gazed down, both wearing totally dazzling smiles; and a dozen or so more. "How did Lin's porno turn out?" Michael asked curiously. Val handed him another two sheets. Even to Michael's amateur eye the difference between the first page and second page was obvious. "Did your kiss or your words do this?" Michael inquired. Val popped open another soda, took a long sip and pointed at the TV where a pair of glued−together pie plates were sending beams of light into the capitol buildings, blowing them into smithereens. "The old movies are better. This new stuff with benevolent and wise aliens is shit." "You think a society technologically advanced enough to cross millions of miles of empty space would do 80

so to blow up national monuments?" "Sure, or take anything they want. Water, air, blondes −− hell −− magic mushrooms if that's what they want." "Might makes right? I think they would have to gotten over that phase by the time they got to space." "Why? Have humans? You've had thousands of years. You've put a man on the moon. You've created artificial intelligence. Yet the only thing that's changed is you can now destroy a hundred thousand people with a weapon instead of one or two." "Mankind is not terribly advanced. If we ever get there, we'll do better," Michael insisted. Val laughed. "Ethical advancement lags far behind technological ones until ethics are forgotten in the race to advance technology." "Wait..." "No. I myself have seen the horse and buggy give way to the internal combustion engine. Steam power to electric to nuclear to whatever is next. I've seen barn buster shows and the Blue Angels. I've seen people die of the flu and now people can survive cancer. What I haven't seen is any corresponding change in human compassion or philosophy beyond a pale veneer which peels under the slightest pressure," Val stopped for a much needed breath. "No, sport, humans will eventually gain the universe out there, but will never expand the one within." Val's vehemence surprised Michael. He could think of no reply. Continuing in his normal, slightly mocking tone, Val asked, "So what brings you down to my dungeon in the middle of the night?" "I was looking for Casey." "She isn't here." "I noticed. I thought she came looking for a snack," Michael explained. Val chuckled. "She probably did, but you're looking in the wrong part of the house." He pointed up. "What Casey needs, she's found in one of the bedrooms." His meaning slammed Michael between the eyes and, for an uncomfortable gray moment, he felt himself at the edge of passing out. When he again opened his eyes, Val was watching him. "Why?" Michael asked miserably. "She needs a lot right now. She's bled you so anemic I can hardly smell you." "Off−limits," Michael muttered. Val nodded. "Though I think she's been cheating." Michael remembered the abbreviated bite she'd given him in the ballroom. Val hooted. "I knew it. Don't worry, Luke will fix you up." "Who's Luke?" "My uncle, the girls' father. He'll prescribe something to boost you, and read Casey the riot act so she'll behave more responsibly." "Responsibly? Be with other men to get a drink?" "To be fed. She won't have to bed them, but that's the easiest way. Privacy and little chance of interruption." Michael laid his head back, slightly dizzy. Psychosomatic symptoms most likely. He took for fact Val's claim of anemia. "Right now she needs more blood?" "Yeah," Val said with a grin, which nearly stopped Michael's mouth from uttering his next question. "Why?" Val replied, "For the same reason that I'm banished from her bed. She's as fertile as a turtle." He certainly had a way of giving more information than required, throwing out red herrings to shock and annoy. Visions of the myriad of encounters of unprotected sex flipped through Michael's mind. Not that having kids was a terrible fate −− just not yet. "No worries, sport. Viraran fertility doesn't work that way." "How about your cousins?" "It does work that way, if not perfectly." Michael thought of Val's cousins, gentle Dona, motherly Deanne, and the sexy Deborah, they seemed pretty okay to him, and he said so. 81

"Not what I mean. The progeny of a viraran male and a human female are always female." Val raised his eyebrows. "Handy as hell for me, but I doubt that's why it happens." Michael wondered which bedroom Casey had crept into and the reaction of the occupant, or occupants. Val pounced on the thought. "Dona and Rob will cuddle with her and offer their elbows. Mac will let her have his neck and use her if Deanne is asleep, or offer his wrist and a hug if Deanne is awake. Reverse the situation for Deanne." Michael listened in fascinated horror, knowing he should walk away or object to the litany, but unable to make a sound or a movement. "Deb will force her to send a dream, probably of me. Then allow her to feed if the fantasy was good enough. Mark's easy. Straight sex and as long a feed as Casey can take. He never complains much. Linda's a new card in the deck. I'll let you know −− if you'd like." Michael shook his head mutely, thankful the list had ended. Val laughed. "No, there's more. Deanne's oldest daughter, Jill, and her crew arrived this evening. I'll let you form your own opinion before I disillusion you. Oh! I nearly forgot Mr. Charles and his son. Casey gives dad a stock tip and lets his hands wander in exchange, or sends young Adam the best wet dreams he ever had." Val sent a self−deprecating smile. "Of course, everyone lets Katie finish the circle." Michael stood somewhat shakily. "Need help?" Val asked in a patently false −− to Michael's ear −− solicitous voice. "I'll manage." Michael had wearily climbed to the top of the basement steps when Val's voice reached him again. "Is it too weird yet, Michael?" The question sounded gently neutral. Michael turned to find Val looking up the stairs, obviously ready to catch him if he fell. "Almost, I think," Michael answered honestly. "Have you ever laid in the surf, letting the water roll you how it will?" Michael nodded. "What always happens?" "A big one comes in. You wind up smashed and farting sand from every orifice." Val snickered, admiring the phrasing of Michael's answer. "You can let us do the wave thing to you, or you can try to ride the wave using some conscious effort to control your glide. You still may end up with a sand castle wedgie, but maybe not." Michael pondered the advice until he climbed back into bed. Casey wrapped her sleeping self around him. Her lips tasted like someone else's blood. He wondered how he felt about a lifetime of kisses flavored thusly.

Morning came and the pounding of running footsteps of the gaggle of offspring and their singsong voices echoing in the corridor brought Michael back from the depths. The sun poured in through the lace curtains as he squinted and groped his way to the bathroom. A really hot shower banished his slept−too−long headache and he emerged feeling almost human. Sneering at himself in the swipe of mirror he'd wiped dry, Michael laughed at the choice of words. Almost human, yeah. His hair dripped a random pattern on the comfortable pullover he'd slipped on to seek out Casey, breakfast, and the plans for the day −− not necessarily in any particular order. His stomach, however, pinging and rumbling displeasure, demanded food first. Hearing the radio playing a Latino ballad, Michael pushed open the kitchen door, expecting to find the plump, gray−haired Maria preparing one of her specialties, maybe those little pancakes, his mouth watered hopefully. The curvaceous, statuesque figure of a strange woman took him aback. She wore tight black jeans and a snug black tee shirt. Obviously in the midst of cooking something that required vegetables to cover every surface, she was gyrating to the music, one hand wielding a wicked−looking knife and the other holding a bundle of green onions. Her long, wavy, dark−bronze hair hung down her back in a loose braid, swinging in counter−beat to the sway of her limber hips. As she executed a whirling half−turn, Michael noticed her height and, moments later, her knockout figure. Playboy tits and ass. Long legs. Bare feet. Very nice. Arms raised, the woman performed another half−turn, which brought Michael into her line of sight. 82

Without missing a beat, she wiped her hands on her business−like apron and extended one for Michael to shake. Dancing back to the radio, she waited for the announcer's voice then clicked it off. "Hi! I'm Jill. You must be Michael. Pleased." She smiled warmly; the small wrinkles crinkling at the corners of her eyes suggested she smiled often. "Yeah, I'm Michael. Nice to meet you, Jill." "You missed breakfast. Sit." Jill pointed to a stool and swung open the refrigerator. Closing the door, she tossed one egg then another up over her back, catching them in front of her. She grinned and waggled her eyebrows at him when he laughed. "Two egg omelet, coming up." "I can eat cereal," Michael said, not wanting to interrupt the project she had before her. "Not in this house," Jill quashed his objection. A hot breakfast seemed no big imposition the way she threw the thing together. In a matter of a few moments, she slipped the perfect golden−yellow crescent on to a plate before him. "You like to cook," he stated. The first bite burned his tongue, cheese oozing like a lava flow into his cheeks. "Slow down, big guy. No one's gonna steal it." She sighed. "Honestly, you remind me of Joey, my oldest son, when he was your age. Shovel it in without chewing or waiting for it to cool." "When he was my age? There is no way you are old enough to be my mother." Unaware of where his gaze had settled, he took another bite of egg. She snapped her fingers in front of her bosom, waiting for his eyes to snap upwards. "I know they're distracting but I'm up here," she said pointing to her face. Michael mumbled an appalled apology and fastened his eyes on his plate. "Michael?" she said. "Look at me." He looked up, studiously ignoring the objects of his earlier enchantment. "I'm used to it, but I'd rather you hear it from me than from Demi −− my husband. Michael blushed. "Oh my God," Jill exclaimed. "You're blushing. Just too cute." She went back to chopping tomatoes. Each time the board filled, she dumped the pieces into a large pot. While Michael watched, thirty tomatoes went to their fate. His plate was whisked away as soon as he laid down his fork. "I may not be old enough to be YOUR mother, but you are younger than one of my kids." "You adopted teen−agers then." "Nope, started young. I'm forty−five. I was pregnant with my second when Aunt Doe had Mark in the oven." "Wait a minute," Michael said, frantically doing the math. "Deanne had just turned twelve when I was born. Nana Sophie raised me, too. Deb is only five years older than I am." "So you got pregnant at thirteen?" "Twelve, but didn't drop Joey 'til I turned thirteen." Michael felt his chin drop, realizing how dumb he appeared with such an expression. "It's the viraran blood. At eleven, I already had reached five−five, and wore a 34−D. Deanne developed even earlier." Michael searched for a way to change the subject. "Can I help?" He gestured to the piles of remaining vegetables. She looked at him with her copper penny eyes, measuring his comment. "Sure. Do onions." She chose a knife for him, using it to demonstrate the mincing of one onion. "'Bout like that." She watched his efforts a minute before shaking her head in disapproval. Jill positioned herself behind Michael and covered his hands with hers. "Like this. We don't want your blood, at least not in my soup." Though he tried to pay attention to the onion−chopping lesson before him, Michael could only concentrate on the sensation of Jill's zaftig breasts pressed against his back. Michael felt the color blaze in his cheeks again and Jill chuckled. "Too cute. Sorry, fella." She gave him a quick smooch on his ear and returned to her tomato demolition. "If you keep your mouth closed your eyes won't water." Michael had never heard that particular tip before. It seemed to work, but in a quick flash of insight he decided Jill had assigned him to chop onions for just that purpose. Mouth closed, ears open. She confirmed his 83

notion. "Nana Sophie added me to the brood, and my first two." "How many?" "Shhh." Jill sounded just like Val. "Six. Two then, two later, and now two with my Greek god." Michael snickered. Jill ignored his amusement. "I want another, but Demi is reluctant." Jill stirred the pot of tomatoes and added some oil. She leaned over to check the burner. Michael concentrated on his growing pile of chopped onion −− it would be too easy to stare at Jill's butt. "A lot of grandchildren," Michael commented. "First generations are not real fertile. Deanne got two kids, Dona one, and poor Deb −− not a single baby. It wouldn't be for lack of effort or practice, another viraran trait. Horniness, and the come−and−get−a−piece−of−this smile." Michael snorted. "Yeah, I know that one." Jill relieved Michael of his pile of onions and plopped a bunch of scrubbed carrots before him. "The second generation, damn, we can't stop. We want children, lots and lots. I think it may be a misdirected instinct." "Huh?" Michael paused in his efforts to quarter the carrots and make even strips of the quarters. "No viraran would ever pass up the chance to mate when in season. Ovulation is a special event. I think viraran grandkids −− like Mark and me −− have the same drive, but a lot more chances. So, more kids." Michael thought of Val's comment on Casey's fertility. "Does Casey, Katie have any children?" Jill patted his hand. "No, not yet." "But soon −− and not mine." She nodded. Michael went back to his carrots. Jill's sympathy washed around him like waves of warm water. "How old are they?" Michael asked, not looking up from his strips, which, in his opinion, were getting prettier with practice. Jill humphed. "I'm not certain. I do know their first foster mother died in the flu epidemic of 1918. Her half−breed kids were sent to an orphanage, but Tad and Katie stayed with their father until Papa Luke married Nana Sophie." "Married?" Val had said not. "Well, whatever. A binding contract and a loving relationship," Jill said seriously then, with one of those amazingly quick changes in her mobile and interesting face, she giggled. "Can you imagine the trouble the orphanage had with those first−family cousins?" She picked up a bundle of some green herb, breathed the fragrance deeply, and held it out for Michael's sniff. "Ummm, basil. That's how I smell to them." The door swung open with a bang against the counter. Jill and Michael jumped. Val turned his regard from one of them to the other. "So what am I interrupting?" he said, insinuating misbehavior. "Nothing yet. Michael decided to help me clear away the vegetables before ravishing me on the butcher's block," Jill replied in the same tone. Val laughed. "So Jill−Pill, how do you smell to me?" he asked, slipping his arms around her from behind and untying the string to her cook's apron. His hands went beneath her apron, sliding up her stomach. For once Michael felt excluded, Val hadn't drawn him in by a meaningful look or mocking word. Michael got the distinct impression Val's fondness for this woman hid no darker emotion. Jill held the bundle up to Val's nose. "Yes," he agreed. "Richer." Val nuzzled Jill's neck. She brought her free hand up into his hair, the stretch raising her breasts back into Michael's full consciousness. Jill tapped Val's cheek with the blunt side of her knife. "Go ahead, Tad. But!" She qualified, "No flash−bang, I have too much to do." Val's hands knew their way around her curves with certainty. Michael concentrated on the last few 84

carrots. The bite lasted longer than any he'd witnessed so far. Jill's participation in the kiss appeared enthusiastic and Val had a little trouble disengaging from her lip lock −− not that he tried very hard. Jill retreated to the cook−pot and, trembling, stirred the contents vigorously. She straightened her shirt and retied her long apron strings, assiduously avoiding Val's and Michael's eyes until her composure returned from whence it flew −− from the bite or from the kiss. Michael wasn't certain which had blown her away. Val poured a glass of refrigerated water and chugged it down. Refilling it, he handed it to Jill, who sipped a little. Val leaned against the sink, finishing the water and watching Jill mince the herbs. Suddenly, Jill slammed down the knife and laughed. Her laughter broke the tension in the room, which had hardened into a disapproving and cheerless presence. "Come here, you idiot," she said to Val. She hugged him hard. "I love you, asshole. No flash−bang −− just pure pheromone." Val hugged her tight. "The pheromones were all yours, Pill. They always have been." "What a nice way to call me a slut," Jill said, tsking. Val shook his head laughing. "No slut. A goddess." Jill pushed him away and handed him a cup of the chopped herbs. She waved to the pot, clearly expecting Val to comply with her silent request. Michael noted, with amusement, Val did as he'd been told. "You met Linda? Have you managed to photograph her yet?" Jill asked. "Just your cup of tea with that blond hair of hers." "Yeah," Val replied, stirring the pot. "But not your kind of pictures." "Somehow, I can't see Mark going for that either," Jill pointed out with a smirk. "Did he immortalize your face, Michael?" Michael shook his head. Val laughed. "Yeah sport, I have. You just don't remember." Jill looked as startled as Michael felt. "Why doesn't he remember, Tad?" Her tone would crack steel. "Cuz there were things he needed not to know. He forgot the pictures too. But they turned out quite hunky. Ask Casey to show them to you −− if you remember. In the meantime, show him yours, Pill. Your pictures, I mean." Jill made a childish face at his innuendo. "I don't carry them around with me, Tad. You have my permission to show him the ones you said you didn't keep, creep." Jill had finished dicing the mounds of vegetables, though not all went into the pot with the tomatoes. "Now get the hell out of my kitchen. I've got baking to do." Michael started down the basement steps after Val, but stopped when Val said, "Unless you want to spend a couple hours in a small darkroom with me find another playmate." "Where's Casey?" "You do keep misplacing her, don't you?" Val picked up the small tablet with the proof notes. "Is she avoiding me?" "Yep, when she's near you, she wants to touch you. When she touches you, she wants to feed from you. So yes. She went shopping with Deanne and the grand−imps to keep some space between you," Val informed him. "I, on the other hand, only feel the need to kiss you, or insult you." He closed the darkroom door behind him and a lock clicking reinforced the message. Michael slunk quickly through the kitchen, smiling apologetically at the dancing Jill for invading her realm again. The bed had been made during his absence by the largely unseen staff. Modern Authors called his name, the text balefully glared at him from the top of the bureau where it, along with his book bag, had appeared −− sometime between the scene in the library with Rob and Val and dressing for the party with Casey. Temporarily successful in his efforts to ignore the siren song of a decent grade, Michael leaned out the open window, trying to place the room in the big picture of the house's facade. A greenhouse, partly camouflaged by hedges, caught his eye. As a sop to his conscience, Michael hauled his book of essays along, telling himself that a greenhouse might be the perfect place to find uninterrupted silence. The air in the hothouse felt like breathing boiled water. A voice called out, "Close the door, you'll wither 85

the plants." Michael hurried to obey. Down one of the long aisles, Dona popped into view. "Oh, its you! Come on back here." She held up her hands, covered in dirt and holding cuttings. Michael left his book by the door and wandered down the aisle, admiring the color and shapes of the tropical−looking flowers covering the plants to either side. "Pretty," he said. Dona nodded, concentrating on the task before her. A transplant marathon had come to an end, fifteen freshly potted cuttings stood gently lashed to tiny wooden stakes. She tied the last piece of yarn, stepping back with a sigh full of her satisfaction with a job well done. Dona brushed her soil−caked hands on her jeans, sending a wry frown for the state of her nails to Michael, who shrugged in commiseration. "My mother says no real gardener wears gloves, to know what the plants want you gotta be able to touch them, skin to skin. Or bark, I guess," Michael offered. "Smart lady, but then most mothers are!" Dona said, smiling. She gestured for him to follow and led the way to another door. The air on the opposite side felt twenty degrees cooler and much less humid. The shelves were filled with tools and trays of different herbs. Dona scrubbed her hands in the sink. A small hot plate, sitting isolated on another bench, held a kettle of hot water. "I was about to have tea. Join me?" He nodded. She chose a few sprigs of this and that from the numerous plastic storage containers. "Do you prefer peppermint or chamomile?" she asked, pausing over a choice. "Oh, wait. I have a better idea," she interrupted herself and reached for another herb. Using a metal ball−shaped tool, which, to Michael, resembled an uneasy cross between a melon ball maker and an eyelash curler, Dona scooped up a tablespoon or so of the blend she had devised. Putting the tea, scoop and all, into a teapot, she poured the boiling water into the waiting vessel. She carried the pot to a low table in one corner, sinking with a sigh of relief into the wide wicker chair. "One of life's unsung great pleasures: Sitting down when your feet are tired." She laid her head back a moment, then popped one eye open. "There's a stool behind you, drag it over." Michael perched on the stool, Dona added a small dollop of some orange−scented liquor to each cup, and then poured the tea. The hue was light brown with a hint of red and tasted slightly fruity. "Nice," he said, noticing her anticipation of his verdict. "Rose−hips are rich in iron, you need built up." Did everyone know? "After this weekend, so will I. Young viraran can be demanding." Michael sipped more tea, glancing into the tropical portion of the greenhouse. "What kind of flowers are you growing?" Dona rolled her head to admire the kaleidoscopic riot beyond the panes of glass. "Orchids, mostly. I've developed a new color. See?" She pointed to a flower, which was the definition of red. "I want to call it 'Viraran', but I'm not sure that is such a safe choice. I'll think of something else, eventually. Maybe 'The Kiss'. "Safe choice?" Michael asked. "Drawing attention to them is unwise. Their response can be quite severe." "Tad and Katie don't draw attention to themselves?" Michael asked incredulously −− thinking of Casey's gold dress. Dona shook her head. "Not so much them as the Zurin family. They deal with trouble quickly and with... Oh, how does Mark put it?" She tapped the cup against her lips. "Oh! With extreme prejudice." It sounded like a James Bond−ism. "License to kill," he joked. "Exactly." Dona leaned forward to pour a bit more tea. Not smiling. Michael gulped a mouthful of the suddenly less flavorful tea. Something clicked in his memory. A family job, one he can't quit. "That's why Tad went to New Orleans. To kill someone?" Dona refilled Michael's cup, adding a larger splash of liquor. "God! He kills people for a living." Springing forward in her seat, Dona shook her head vehemently. "No, he takes pictures for a living −− he could survive on the income, if he had to. No, he kills people for the family." "Sucks them dry?" Michael said. 86

"He uses a gun, or a knife. Something easy to explain away as a basic murder or suicide." Dona closed her eyes. "The family declares outlaws and the hunters track them down. Sometimes, I think, when Tad gets tired and sad enough, he will do something unforgivable, become the quarry." Tears slid down her cheeks. "What a cage they live in. Katie refuses to believe there is anything outside worth having which she cannot have within. She's lucky in that, she'll survive. Tad sees only the bars." "I don't see the cage," Michael said. Dona snorted. "You will." They sipped the tea and let the warmth of the sun relax them. Michael cleared his throat. "What's up between Tad and Rob?" Dona's head fell forward to her chest. "Oh, that." Michael raised his hand. "Hey, I don't have to know." Dona laughed lightly, but Michael doubted she was amused. "Raising viraran is challenging. They can be so incredibly wonderful, yet so damned vexing." A look of determination settled in her face. "I'll tell you, but please remember, we did our best. The Zurins would have taken a different option had we not gained some control over him." Michael thought the different option would have been a final solution. "Tad was devastated when my mother died. He'd lost one mother to flu and his two cousins to adoption. Losing Sophie... Well, had she lived maybe she would have been able to rein the twins by sheer force of her love. Rob and I moved home when Momma became ill and became the caretakers because I inherited the twins along with the house. God, they were so good with her, never allowing her to suffer. Always one or the other with her −− though she smelled so terrible from the cancer I could barely enter the room without vomiting afterwards. "They had looked about twelve years old but had started to mature, physically and in other ways. They had venom and needed to feed more often. Tad was incorrigible. I don't know how many times the police brought him home. Never anything too terrible, just all the time. Fights, public nuisance, underage drinking, girls −− usually hookers." "And Katie?" Dona chuckled a little bitterly. "I have no doubt she engaged in the same behaviors as Tad, but was circumspect. She'd arrive home after going missing for days −− in the back of a limo, or in the cab of a delivery truck, but never in a cop's car. Tad would arrive in handcuffs with bruises. If Katie had bruises, they never were in places which showed." "What happened between him and Rob?" Dona put up a finger. "I'm getting there." She put a lie into her words by falling into a contemplative silence. She shook herself and grabbed Michael's hand. "Imagine Tad, exactly as you know him now, in the body of a fifteen year old. Imagine an adolescence lasting two decades. Mark went from my womb to a pre−teen, and Katie and Tad hadn't changed. Rob tried to be strict, he tried being a friend, and he failed. Nothing worked. I called Tad's grandmother. She told me to work it out, or the family would. "Rob found Tad and Mark −− together, touching −− and went completely berserk. Beat the living daylights out of Tad." "So Tad hit him?" Dona's eyes filled with pain. "No. Not until Rob hit Mark." Michael could picture Val slouched, arms deflecting the angry blows until Rob turned away to punish Mark. "Tad nearly killed him, sent him to the hospital with broken ribs, a cracked jaw, internal bleeding. Rob stayed in serious condition for a week and remained in the hospital for over a month." "Where was Katie?" "In Texas with my father. Trying to find the other cousins." "What did Tad do?" Dona shook her head. "I don't know. He'd run off." "When he came back, Rob laid down the law?" "In a manner of speaking. Rob kept Tad in the basement for almost three months. Designed and built a prison, lured Tad there and locked him in." Michael remembered Val's comment about his dungeon, but he had though it a Val−ism, not an accurate 87

appellation. "I couldn't bear it. Mark and I lived with Deanne for a while until Tad lost the ability to send his misery to us. Rob gave him no blood, only water and bread. After a few weeks, if Tad addressed him respectfully, Rob would add some fruit or a sweet. If Tad showered and straightened his room properly, Rob would give Tad a book to pass the time. Every day Rob would throw one of those fiendish little puzzles through the bars. 'Solve this, smart boy, and I'll unlock one of the bolts.' Eventually, Tad solved one, though I suspect Jill taught him the trick of it, but there were three bolts. Rob would taunt him. 'A child's game, why can't you do this?' "Eventually, Rob stopped the taunting and Tad stayed quiet." "It took three months to break him?" Michael said, horrified by the inhumane treatment. "I don't think Tad ever broke, I don't think he can. Even after Rob unlocked the bars, Tad slept in the room. Driving home the cruelty of the punishment." She rubbed her forehead, as if taken by a sudden headache. "No, Rob let Tad out because of the telegram, though he tried to pretend otherwise." "What telegram?" "Katie's. Telling us that she was coming home." "Rob let Tad out because Katie was coming back?" "Oh yes!" Dona exclaimed forcefully. "Katie? Tad kicks the tar out of him and Rob worries about what Katie may say?" Dona stood and emptied the dregs of tea in the sink, rinsing out the pot and cups and setting them to air−dry on a tea towel. "Katie gave you no trouble and Tad was a pistol, but sometimes, you sound like you prefer Tad." Dona's shoulders slumped. She smiled in a crooked resigned way. "Maybe. You always know where you stand with Tad. He'll get angry, say horrible things, embarrass you, but then it's over. The storm is passed and you have clear sailing until the next squall. He doesn't hold a grudge and will start over if beginning again will fix things up between you." She walked out into the steamier room again, closing the inner door behind Michael as he joined her. "Katie will just look at you with those big brown eyes. Tad gets mad, but Katie gets even. You never even knew she was angry until the knife between your ribs comes out bloody." Dona caressed the brilliantly red bloom gently. "I think I'll call it 'Kate's Kiss'." "God," Michael exhaled the word. "After all Rob did to Tad, how could you stay with him?" Dona sighed, the air leaving her mouth in a series of shaken oh's. "Dammit Michael, how do you think Rob got him into the basement?" Michael shrugged, but had begun to form a guess. The idea must have shown in his eyes, or the sudden stiffness in his stance. "I lured him there, with blood and sex. I didn't merely allow Tad's imprisonment, I helped." Michael stared into Dona's eyes, transfixed and wordless, each moment bringing another impossible question or vivid picture, feeling more nauseous with each thought. Unable to speak, his breaths left him in a chain of unrelated and unintelligible syllables. She finally freed him by looking away; tears glimmering unshed in her deep hazel eyes, cheeks blazing from shame or anger.

After bursting from the hothouse, Michael careened from one place to the next, at odds with each until he thought of Val's aerie. A safe place, a quiet place, far from these conversations that held such terrible enlightenment. The photography studio had been tidied and he wondered if Val had done the task or if the housekeeper's routine included even this out−of−the−way place. Climbing onto the platform, he remembered leaving his book of essays on the shelf in the greenhouse. Damn, but it would probably show up −− like an unlucky penny. He stretched out comfortably, first gazing out the moon−shaped window then, rolling to his back; he examined the montage of photos, hand−drawn pictures, and newspaper and magazine clippings on the ceiling. One caught his eye, of a young girl on a horse sitting very properly and stiffly. The quality of the photo suggested extreme age, and Michael guessed by the background and clothing the picture had been taken in the west. He recalled something about Casey and Val having lived in Texas after the flu epidemic killed their first foster mother and, upon closer inspection, the girl in the photo did resemble Casey. How old were they? 88

God, he was tired. Anemia? Stress? Emotion? Late nights? Too much Casey? How could she be something other than human? With her silly humor and wild beauty, her quick mind and awesome grace, with her searing ethical questions and maddeningly logical answers. How could any being be more human? Sleep slipped over him bringing its usual mixed buffet of fantasy, wish fulfillment, and reality re−enactment. Warm hands stroked his neck and found the knots in his shoulders; exquisitely smooth lips wafted light kisses on his cheeks and ears. Casey's cozy body laid in his arms and his eyes opened slowly to see her looking back at him. Her smile widened and she kissed his nose. Closing his eyes, he found her lips waiting for a proper hello. No scent or tang of blood distracted him from the simple pleasure of Casey's kiss. He buried his face in her neck, inhaling her ice cream fragrance, enjoying the feel of her hands in his hair. A low chuckle reached him. "Got one for me?" Val whispered, the words breathed softly in his ear, tickling and causing an involuntary shiver. Michael slid his arms around Casey, resting his head on her waist. "Nope." He patted her rump softly. "Hiya, babe. Missed you. Why'd you bring him?" "I missed you too," she said with a laugh. "I didn't bring him. He was here when I came up." Michael thought briefly about the erotic dreams he'd had. "Dammit, Val. Did you send?" "Nah, but I did watch. Does Katie know how perverted you are?" He laughed, kneading Michael's shoulders. Michael realized it had been Val who had rubbed his shoulders while he slept and wondered if it should bother him. "No," Casey and Val answered together. Michael felt them exchange a glance, feeling slightly excluded in the long silence. Could they communicate that way, without words? A tiny slither trickled up his spine, lodging like an ice cube at the base of his skull. Though the spot felt cold, the temperature radiating from it warmed his scalp. A full−blown picture−question formed from the spot. The three of them, together, like they were at this moment. Sex had a place, but the real focus seemed just being together. Val didn't care whether or not Michael ever became his lover, only if Michael could love him. Touching didn't have to be anything but affectionate cuddling, but the relationship could go no further until certain parameters were established, his and theirs. Could the two couples −− Tad and Katie, Casey and Michael −− become a trio? A second picture replaced the first, offering another option, keeping the couples separate. Michael felt pain and sadness from both viraran at the proposal. Val's fingers found the icy place and massaged lightly, relieving the cold ache. The radiating wavering connected feeling remained. The thoughts overlapped, his/Casey's/Val's. Michael tried to keep track of all three but a queasy sense of vertigo overcame him. "Like watching a slide show, listening to the teacher, taking notes. Let 'em just flow," Casey advised. "Don't think about it," Val added. Michael caught on to the trick of it. More like watching a movie through 3−D glasses and, with that, the vertigo disappeared. Casey and Val sent him another image, the picture of how they saw him. Michael smiled, so that is how he looked. To everyone or just viraran? Then he realized how much of the portrait had been decided on an emotional level −− his analogy of a 3−D movie much more apt than he could have guessed. So much of what they perceived was based more on the subliminal clues than the visual ones, creating a layered version of the world. Michael envisioned Val's imprisonment and tried to project sympathy. If the psychic talents were fed by blood then Val had been temporarily blinded by Rob's cruelty. "Ah well, I survived," Val said. The contact ended, Michael could identify the moment when Val then, moments later, Casey pulled away. Stroking Casey's back beneath her silky top, Michael marveled at the similarity in texture and variance in temperature between the skin and the silk. He felt Val sit up and turn in the limited space. "Brought something for you, sport," Val said. Reluctantly −− hoping it wasn't his Modern Authors text −− Michael pulled his arms from around Casey and sat up. Val handed him a heavy album. Sitting cross−legged with the volume propped up in his lap Michael turned the pages. Casey squirmed her way around to look also, resting her head on his thigh. The photos were of Jill. Maybe a few years younger, but Michael had begun to realize how difficult and irrelevant guessing the ages of viraran and their hybrids could be. Whereas most of the pictures Val had 89

shown him were terribly sensual, these were the first that were blatantly pornographic. Shot outdoors, in a garden with stone benches and statuary, the pictures told a story. An adult movie plot −− woman alone in a garden, dreaming of a lover, pleasuring herself, begging one statue then the other to awaken and join her. "God, Playboy would kill for these," Michael said. "I thought she looked good with her clothes on." He glanced at Casey to see if she had been insulted by his comment. She grinned. "I know −− she's gorgeous." The third statue resembled a troll−like being −− a gargoyle. Jill's posture indicated reluctant desperation as she prostrated herself before the stone form. In the next, the statue had been transformed into the figure of a man −− a remarkably ugly one. "How'd you do that?" Michael asked in amazement. Val shifted to look over Michael's shoulder. "Do what?" Val said, draping his arms; one on Michael's shoulder, the other around Casey. Casey cuddled in, her head against Michael's arm and supported by Val's chest. "Find a guy who looks like the statue?" "I didn't. Jill did, or rather, he made a statue to resemble himself." "Huh?" "That's Jill's husband, Demi," Val explained. "He does stage design. He made those as props for a weird little play. Watching the rehearsals gave him the idea for this whole pictorial." "He's Jill's Greek god?" Michael couldn't believe anyone as stunning as Jill would be married to such a troglodyte. Michael turned the page. In each the contrast between her beauty and his ugliness dominated the mood. He stopped at one particularly explicit pose. "Humph," Michael cleared his throat. "He makes me feel somewhat..." "Inadequate?" Val chuckled. "Yeah. Me too!" Michael glanced down at Casey. Val's hand caressed the skin under the neckline of her shirt, the skin−to−skin connection reassuring them both. Michael registered Casey's contact points −− on his ankle between the top of his drooping sock and the hem of his jeans, and on Val's wrist at her neck. When Val wasn't pointing out some trick of lighting or angle, his hand rested on the back of Michael's neck. A circle. "How about you? Or have you seen these before?" Casey smiled at him, as contented as he had ever seen her. "No, I've never seen these." She shot a reproachful look at her twin. "Jill never gave me permission before," Val explained. "So?" Casey regarded the portrait and examined Demi's physique closely. "Not intimidated," she said, "Very intrigued." Val laughed and, after a moment, Michael joined in. "Don't worry, sport. They are absolutely faithful." Michael looked at the final picture, Jill lying in a sated pile at the feet of the statue, arms raised in supplication. "You don't suppose that's why she married him? Do you?" Michael asked. Casey and Val laughed. "Maybe," Val said. "No, it's his kiss." Casey interjected. "And his voice." "That too," Val agreed. "His accent does it." "The way he holds you with his eyes, as his words rumble." Val nodded. "You feel as if there is no one else in the world." "Nice." "Extremely." "His lips are perfect for kissing." Val made a rude noise. "I wouldn't know, though I'd love to find out." He fell backwards moaning, dragging Casey along. She tickled him until he caught her hands. Michael got the impression they were speaking aloud for his benefit, but he felt a ripple of the psychic undercurrent raise the hairs on the back of his hands and neck. Did they realize he could detect the contact between them? "Don't you ever think of anything else?" Michael asked. 90

Val raised his head and rested it on one hand, his expression serious, wearing the hint of a smile, which was the natural look of both viraran. Depending on the situation, it could be taken for scurrilous contempt, but was actually a neutral one. "Do you?" The sarcasm flowed back in his tone. "What else is there?" "You need a shrink," Michael joked. Altering his voice to a reasonable imitation of Dr. Ruth, he continued, "Verd assoziation. Voman?" "Sex," Val said after a moment's consideration. The corners of his mouth twitched, betraying his amusement. "Man?" "Sex." "Mother? Don't say sex," Michael warned. "Blood." Val's eyes lost the twinkle of entertainment. "Father?" The game had become a grim reminder of the differences. "Stranger." Casey drew patterns on Val's chest, looking unhappy and remote, but Michael thought she followed every word. "Stranger? I thought you lived with him a while?" "That's my answer. It's your stupid game. If you don't like it, go fuck yourself," Val said, evenly. Michael paused then asked, "Sister?" Val looked at Casey, fingered a lock of her dark curls. "One word?" "Yes." Michael could feel the ebb and flow of connection between them. Finally, Val glanced up at Michael. "There is no one word." "Sister?" Michael insisted. A wicked grin evolved on Val's face. "Sex." "You are truly sick," Michael declared. "You should seek professional help." Val replied, "It's called Human Psychology, sport. The findings don't apply to me." "Could start a whole new field. Viraran Studies." Michael's joke fell flat. Casey shook her head. "No one will ever study us. We are not lab rats, or volunteers." Again the light banter had turned an unexpected corner into darkness. He let it go. Michael turned back to his favorite pair of pictures. In one, Demi held Jill arched against him, her head flung to the side and her hair streaming like liquid bronze over his biceps. His dark fingers created furrows on her fair skin; her face was intense in her pursuit of this unexpected pleasure. In the other Jill's Greek god kissed her breasts, her hands on his shoulder and shaved head urging him closer. In both photos the contrast between beauty and ugliness remained, but what drew Michael to these two pictures was the infinite gentleness of Demi's regard in the first, and the profound tenderness of Jill's expression in the other. A life together, a set of bookends, married with children, making it last −− like his parents had, a comfortable pair, a loving couple. As mismatched as he −− or anyone −− considered them, these two had a real thing between them. If Michael had been asked, he would denied wanting to fall in love, marry the girl of his dreams, have his quota of children, or fulfill the requirements and demands of either. But lurking somewhere in the inner recesses of his being he completely expected the fate just the same. A program installed by the expectations of society because, for the most part, it worked. Not always without glitches, bugs, or lines of gibberish, not always performing up to the specifications visualized by the designer, but still the best program available to date. Jill and Demi, a couple like millions of others −− granted having a rather unusual skeleton in the family closet −− but still within the standard deviation that defined normalcy. Michael could picture Saturday morning cartoons, spilled cereal and red−juice carpet stains in their world. He could see Mark and Linda on their once a month date, discussing orthodontics and pre−school assemblies over chicken cordon−bleu and baked potatoes. Their world, his world. A life where, although, one may not have to mow the lawn, doing so would not be an exercise in the surreal. Somehow he couldn't picture Casey in a white apron, or even holding down a 9−5'er. Her work seemed to consist of deal making, mergers and acquisitions, investments and stealth. Where did family or marriage fit in? If she could never stay in one place too long, if changing identities fell into an as−easy−as−pie kind of 91

alteration in life−style −− where did he fit in? A tag−a−long? A companion for the ride? A well−paid gigolo? And Val; a stone he didn't even want to think about turning over. A deeper well, filled with emotions and feelings which Michael had no intention of exploring for fear of drowning. Did they belong anywhere? Could any place be home to them? Could any one person be everything to them? "How's it work?" Michael blurted, turning to see Val and Casey break from a kiss, both sets of lips red. The vivid color and the tale it told rendered him speechless. This is where they belonged, hidden and together. No one place could house them; no one person could help them; no one life could hold them. Dona was wrong. They weren't in a cage. They were on the outside looking in. Excluded. A soft, cool tickle on the base of his skull exposed their attempt to connect. He firmly slammed a mental door against the picture that tried to form. He felt as if some horrendous obstacle had been overcome. He had a defense against the unwanted voyeurism. Casey reached out, holding his suddenly cold hand in her fever−warm one. "Don't shut me out." Michael remained locked and asked, "What's the deal?" Val closed his eyes; Michael could feel him pushing against the mental door. Suddenly he heard Val laugh, followed by the cold tentacles of a connection. Val was in, Casey followed. "Why close the door, sport, if you leave all the windows open?" As forcefully as they had invaded, the viraran fled, having proved the point. Val sat up in the tight space and pulled Michael by the front of his shirt. The picture album tumbled from the loft; Michael could hear the spine crack on the bare wooden planks. Val dragged Michael as close as his fist full of shirt between them would allow. The usual sparkle of the green eyes had been replaced by a stony−hard flat glare. His mouth was set in a grim line, countenance of a hunter, visage of a killer. "Don't hide from me, Michael. If I can't hear you, I'll assume the worst and react accordingly," Val threatened. "If you can hide, then you can conspire against us." "Jesus Christ, Val. I just wanted some privacy. Quit being so damned paranoid," Michael said, more angry than afraid, but feeling the balance shift between the two emotions as Val continued to restrain him. The tickle returned and Michael allowed the connection. Casey put her hand on the white−knuckled fist. "Stop, please," she whispered, nuzzling Val's cheek in entreaty, as if seeking a favor, but Michael caught the command in her send, imperative and impatient with both the squabbling males. "Even paranoids have real enemies, sport," Val said in a lighter tone, loosening his grip but keeping his fingers tangled in the folds of Michael's pullover. "I'm not your enemy, Val. Or Casey's." "Yet." "Or ever," Michael swore, reinforcing his words with the most sincere mental vow he could muster. Val tugged on the collar. Michael closed his eyes, turning his head, knowing what Val intended. "I don't want to kiss you." "Kiss me, instead." Casey interposed her face, slipping under her brother's arm. A much−preferred offer and her timing couldn't have been better. Michael accepted with some relief, feeling Val's grip loosen enough to allow his hands to reach Casey's face. He had the sense of being watched, but the tension of anger ebbed away. "She likes more tongue," Val suggested, in mock helpfulness. Casey's kiss turned into a giggle as Michael licked her face. Val set Michael free with a snort, kicking his feet over the edge and landing on the attic floor as silently as a cat. Collecting the scattered matted photos, Val called back, "It's almost showtime, fans. Get cracking." Listening carefully, Michael could hear the viraran's soft tread as the stairs creaked in his passing. "Showtime?" he asked. "Lucien is here. Showtime is a family dinner." Her voice lacked any enthusiasm for the event. Michael mused aloud, "All the world is a stage?" Casey grimaced. "Life shouldn't be that way, should it? If I can't be me here, then where?" Michael patted the place on his chest under which his heart beat, no longer wildly from the crazy mixture of anger and fear, but purposefully in its established function. "How 'bout here?" Casey, Katie −− he suddenly decided he liked her family's name −− leaned her head against him, either listening to his heart or contemplating the pulsing of her own. Her hair slid like silk swatches under his hands, the locks curling about his fingers, no longer than when they had first met. 92

"I thought he was going to kill me." Michael said awhile later. Casey shook her head. "Val will give you as many chances as you need. I'm the one who will hold a grudge." Michael snorted. "Really, Michael. I'm the one you should beware." Laughing, not noticing she didn't share in it, Michael said, "I could never be afraid of you, babe."

Casey wore a frothy off−white peasant's blouse with a brightly colored skirt. "Lucien likes us to look pretty for these things," she stated, gazing pensively in the mirror. "Should I wear my jacket?" Michael asked. Casey looked him over, taking in his gray shaker sweater and best jeans. She twitched her nose delicately. "You look fine, and it doesn't matter." "No?" "Lucien doesn't care what men look like." Casey leaned over to pull on a pair of canvas sandals with brightly colored laces which she wrapped criss−cross up her calves to tie in little bows beneath her knees. Michael enjoyed the view. "Strictly ultra−hetero." Michael had considered Val's behavior as perhaps normal with viraran, but apparently his sexual predilections were his own. "More complicated than that, Michael. How Val acts with me, and you, and here, has nothing to do with how he behaves elsewhere. How Lucien responds when he is with Janessa, his twin, is something other still. We are all utterly insane if you judge us by human standards, but completely within the bounds of our own." Michael let the issue of sanity ride. Who could properly judge? Not him. "Your mother, do you ever see her?" "Rebecca and Sophie were my mothers. Janessa merely bred us." Casey pulled a ribbon around her head, tied it. Examining the results, she yanked it off with a frustrated cry. "He is going to hate my hair." Michael pulled her away from the mirror. "You look great, stop it. If he doesn't like it, flip him the bird or stick out your tongue. Depending on how childish you're feeling." She stuck out her tongue at him, which led to a kiss. "How about your father? You lived with him awhile, right?" She straightened her skirt, gravitating toward the mirror again. She sorted through a handful of earrings, holding one then another then another beside her ears, considering the effects of each. "We lived with one of his families, not with him," she said absently. She turned, holding two different earrings. "Which ones?" Michael had experience at this sort of thing, watching his father handle the same situation with his mother. Whichever one he said, she'd choose the other, though the choices seemed pretty much equivalent. "The red ones, they match the red in your shoes." Had to add a reason, something for her to reject in her consideration. Much to Michael's surprise, Casey pushed the posts of the red pair through the holes in her earlobes. "One of his families?" Michael hated these double topic conversations, obviously the gold standard with these two. "How many does he have?" "As many as his twin has need of," she said, distracted. "I'm going to change my shoes." Michael grabbed her upper arm and turned her toward dinner. "I'm starving. Leave the shoes, they're cute." He yanked the door open to find Val standing there, leaning against the wall across the hall. "She's not going for cute," Val opined. He carefully considered Casey's outfit. "Here, like this." Val adjusted the sleeves, pushing the wide neck opening to bare one shoulder. "Better?" Casey's expression said otherwise, but she nodded. "Did you wait long?" "You didn't have to wait in the hallway, you could have come in," Michael said. "A closed door is a locked one." "And an open one?" Michael asked, wondering if this was some sort of house rule of which he should be aware. Val grinned, throwing one of those Katie−looks his way. "An invitation." 93

"So shut our door, tonight," Casey added. "You never know what may wander in." The family gathered in the Arizona room. As Casey had predicted, each of the women were dressed in peacock finery, the men much more casually. Casey approached the tangle with a nervous antsy squaring of her shoulders. Michael expected some forbidding Stoker−esque sort of character to be holding court but, instead, a slender man of average height stood listening to the soft conversations around him. Light blond hair, worn quite short, shimmered with streaks of true silver. Pale, gray−blue eyes looked out of an unlined face, handsome in a Nordic way. The cousins evidently resembled Momma Sophie with their dark hair and eyes, getting only the viraran nature from their father. Father. He looked far younger than any of the women except Casey and Linda. Maybe Jill's age −− the one she appeared to be, rather than the chronological one. "Good evening, Lucien," Casey said, a hint of a curtsy in her greeting. "Katrianna," he said, sort of foreign sounding. "You've cut your hair far too short. Masculine." His eyes raked over her slender figure in a judgmental manner. Michael felt Val's hand on his neck, holding him in place, urging him to not respond. "The style suits you well enough, I suppose." "Fuck you, Luke. She's a fox," Val said, diverting the patriarch's attention. The cold eyes flickered once more over Casey before snapping to regard her twin. "Vladimir, as charming and polite as ever," Lucien greeted. "Who is your −− friend?" "Not mine, Katie's," Val said. Lucien extended his hand −− something he hadn't offered to Casey or Val. "You must be Michael. We'll talk." An order veiled as an offer? Michael didn't like how Lucien treated either twin. Casey drew him away with a sigh. "What a bastard," Michael exclaimed in a whisper. "You two are so lovable next to him." Val chuckled. "Who is your −− friend?" he mocked. "God, I love driving him crazy." Casey giggled. "What bug crawled up his ass?" Michael asked. Casey shook her head. "He's as uncomfortable as we are." "Hey, I'm the empath," Val objected. "Then you should be more sympathetic." Val nodded. "Viraran don't like each other, Michael. He gives me the heebie−jeebies but there are the two of us to gang up on him. So he makes the first move to put us off−balance and gain the advantage." "He is responsible for us, until we are considered fully mature. Lucien can't wait to be shed of his problem children," Casey said. "He's not your father." "Yeah, he is. He's the only adult viraran we knew as children." "I get it, but I do have one question." Michael asked, grinning, "Vladimir?" "Janessa has a strange sense of humor. She named me after Vlad the Impaler −− one of the first vampire legends," Val said, seriously. Jill's snort of laughter interrupted the story. "What a load of shit. Believe nothing. He has no clue but he'll spin you a different yarn every damn time." She rested her hand on Michael's arm. "Michael, I'd like you to met my husband, Demitrius Alexander." Jill turned to the short bull−like man next to her. "Demi, this is Michael Beiler." Demi Alexander was every bit as ugly as his photographs, but after several moments Michael no longer noticed. The man's voice, a deep bass that reminded him of Darth Vader without emphysema, bewitched with its rise and fall in a lilting Jamaican accent. Demi behaved at ease with Casey and Val, but Linda hovered near Mark and Dona, casting anxious glances at the viraran. In a voice low enough not to carry past the circle of Casey and Michael, Demi and Jill, Val commented, "She expects us to fall upon her with bared fangs." Casey smiled. "She's seen too many horror movies." Demi glanced at Linda, who averted her eyes quickly. "Do you think it would help if I spoke with her?" 94

he asked, confirming Michael's opinion of the man. A Quasimodo, the soul of a saint trapped in the body of a monster. Jill kissed his bald head. "You frighten her, too. Mike could," she said, searching Michael's eyes as she wiped the lipstick from her husband's head, "If he could quiet his own fears." Val stared across the room. Mark glanced up and quickly looked away. "He likes her to be a little afraid. Stupid." "Why would he want that?" Jill scoffed. Val put his arm around Jill's waist, patting her rump. He slid his hand languorously up her flank. Demi became restless, quite aware of where the viraran's offending paw wandered. "Why? Come on Pill. Don't you be stupid, too." Demi's cheeks darkened, watching Val touch his wife, clearly unwilling to create a scene. Michael wondered why Val chose to torment Demi. Jill had not melted even the slightest, remaining stiff and silent during the intrusion. Val's hand, having finally made the meandering journey from her rear to her neck, tilted her chin, so he could better nuzzled her throat. He made a small purr of contentment. Casey intervened as Demi bristled. "Make your point, Val. Quit baiting them." Val dropped his hand away from Jill's hair, taking a half−step back. Raising his hands, palms open, he feigned an innocent air for the agitated Demi, who stood with fists clenched. "For the same reason your older children are left at home, sweetness. You don't want them too fond of us." Michael laughed. The others gave him a startled glance. "If that is the reason, better to let them know you well. Fondness is not what I would call my feelings toward any of you viraran. Except you, of course." The last was spoken in a whisper to Casey and followed by a quick peck at the dimpled corner of her mouth. Jill and Demi exchanged a private look, and then laughed in relief. Val shook his head with one of his more enigmatic smirks, walking away toward Deb and Deanne. Casey squeezed Michael's hand affectionately. "I'll talk to Lin. Katie, you too. You're the least scary," Jill said in her take−charge manner. Casey raised an eyebrow. "Oh?" "Scary−looking anyway," she said. Casey laughed silently as Jill made a horrible face and raised her hands like claws. Demi watched them walk away with a sigh. "A futile effort." "Why?" Michael asked. Demi fixed him with a dark grim look. "Being afraid, when faced with the unnatural, is reasonable." Michael wondered if this powerfully built Minotar−esque man were afraid of the viraran. "You seem okay with them." Demi shrugged. "I work with the most unnatural creatures of all." At Michael's puzzled look, he said, "Actors." They both laughed. "Jill calls you her Greek god. Are you from Greece?" Demi said. "My father came from Crete, he met my mother in Jamaica. A mismatch made in heaven." He flashed his perfect smile. Michael nodded. "So you're her Greek god." "No." Demi shook his head. "The first time I saw her, she was posing as Aphrodite for an art class in Greenwich Village." Demi's eyes wandered to where Jill stood, chatting with Mark and Linda. "Do you know the myth?" Michael shook his head. "The goddess of love and beauty?" "Daughter of Zeus and Dione, born of the foam of the sea. She had many lovers and many suitors but married Hephaestus, a minor god of the underworld, a metal smith." "She's Aphrodite and you're Hephaestus, her Greek god." Demi smiled. "In the myth, Hephaestus was hideous to look upon. He hid beneath the earth to avoid the 95

ridicule of the other gods and man." Michael's face betrayed his dismay. How could Jill be so cruel? Demi's next words dispelled that notion. "She used to call me her Adonis, but stopped because I asked. She won't call me Hephaestus, so we've compromised. I call her my 'Goddess' and she calls me her 'Greek god'. I suppose it doesn't matter to which one she is referring..." Mr. Charles, dressed in a tailed coat, announced dinner. Michael's stomach growled audibly. Demi added one last comment. "...As long as she loves me." Dinner, served by Mr. Charles and Nydia, began with soup, thick with vegetables and slivers of spicy sausage, along with thick slices of crusty bread on which mushrooms and cheese had been spread, then broiled to a golden brown. Michael found it amusing to find certain pieces of carrot that he recognized from his stint as Jill's assistant. Adam Charles poured wine, allowing Lucien to sample the vintage. Val laughed at his uncle solemn expression. "Half of us will drink Boone's Farm, Luke, if it'll pop a buzz. The other half would just as soon have a beer." Michael noticed Rob's quickly hidden smirk. Whatever the man had done to the young viraran, whether in desperation or in cruelty, he obviously shared Val's sense of the ridiculous. Lucien gave his nephew a quelling look and nodded to the houseman's son. "Do we have Boone's Farm?" "I doubt it, sir." The elder Mr. Charles said. "Then Vladimir will content himself with this. Please serve, Adam." The atmosphere reminded Michael more of Christmas past at his Nanny Beiler's house than he cared to admit. He could picture Uncle Jerry sitting quietly until the beers −− which were consumed on the sly since his grandmother forbade alcohol in her house −− kicked in. Then he would then expound on the corruption of the justice system. His long−suffering wife, Emma, would shush him, steer him back to his chair, and make her silent apologies to the other adults. The dinner small talk would resume as if nothing had happened. Here, the congenial conversation had flowed, the topics ranging from politics and sports, to current affairs and the gossip of the entertainment industry. Demi's stories, true or fabricated, related the misbehaviors of the stage actors which whom he worked. Most of the questions passed around Michael, the stranger in their midst. Undercurrents between Casey and Val caught at the tiny hairs on his neck, occasionally icing the spot on the back of his neck, touching but not intruding. Val delivered some generally ignored asides in a low voice, which carried the length of the table. "Crostini i funghi and la minestra di verdura con la salsiccia," Lucien declared, after a Val−ism about the 'decent grub'. "Zuppa di cozze, cotolotte alla milanese. You have your grandmother's talent for cooking, Gillian." Lucien praised. Mussels in sauce had followed the soup, and then veal chops in a rich marinara. The tomatoes had not been sacrificed in vain, Michael decided. Jill shrugged. "Michael sliced the veggies." Michael, feeling the glow of the never−empty cup of wine, said with a southern twang, "It's Shake−n−Bake, Daddy, an' I helped." In the following moment, the television watchers were betrayed. Dona and Deanne, Mark and Val laughed, Jill and Linda giggled. Mac chucked and Rob hid another smile. Casey and Lucien looked blankly down the table. Deb ignored the whole comment, rather like Uncle Jerry would have after a few more trips to his car. Desert was served in the Arizona room, a raisin−dense rum−cake with powdered sugar, complemented by one of Doe's custom blended teas. Casey nudged Michael, indicating Lucien with her chin. The older viraran stood motionless, regarding the display of stone figurines. Michael felt a pulling, recognized it as a summons. "I have to go?" "Talk to him," Casey urged. "Consider it viraran etiquette." Lucien appeared not to notice his approach, continuing to take stock of the statuary. Michael cleared his throat. "Uh, hi. Casey said..." Lucien held up his hand. "Shhh." Swallowing the impulse to laugh, having now identified the source of Val's more irritating habits, Michael waited. 96

"My Janessa gave me these. I'm happy to see them given a place of honor." Lucien sighed. "They're unusual," Michael commented. "I don't know anything about pre−historic art, though." "Your pre−history −− not ours. You are, however, correct. These are uncommon. Artifacts made to ward evil spirits." "The primitives thought this would do the job?" Michael laughed. "They worked," Lucien said, finally deigning to glance his way. "If only because viraran don't linger where we are unwanted," Michael glanced at the rough forms with their slender vaguely humanoid shapes. "These were meant for viraran? To say you were unwanted?" "No. The forms welcomed us, a sign of invitation. Then, after we became comfortable in our feeding habits, these drew us in to be trapped and destroyed. Usually by fire, but often in more creative ways." Lucien glanced at Val and Casey. "Young ones forget the danger. We are at the mercy of our human families. A wise viraran refrains from loving them too well, or annoying them too often." "The girls are fond of you, Casey and Val respect you." Lucien snorted. "My daughters fear me, and Vladimir respects no one." "Fear? I thought everyone looked forward to your visit." Lucien rubbed his fingers together. "Janessa and I control the purse−strings." Michael sighed. "This twin thing." He considered his words before speaking, maybe a futile effort, not wanting to offend. The older man smiled. "Civility is never futile. Ask away, I'm not easily offended." "For all his piss and vinegar, as my grandmother would say, Val obeys Casey." A shrug. "Matriarchal society. Our twins rule us, with our complete consent," Lucien said. "You humans should try it. The few examples in your history prove my point. Always more peaceful, always attuned to the needs of the many, without sacrificing the individual." "I don't know. Cleopatra, Catherine of Russia, Queen Victoria all sent their countries into wars," Michael argued. "But they were not matriarchal societies," Mac interrupted. Faint consternation passed over Lucien's face. "Correct. They were female rulers in male−dominated civilizations." "Just a couple of nice girls trying to out−macho the neighborhood bullies," Mac said. "Hey, sorry to interrupt the little tête−à−tête. I wanted to thank−you for the medicine for my stomach. It worked." "Only for a while, you must stop drinking and smoking," Lucien said, obviously wearied with the repetition of ignored advice. "I'm doing good, cutting back." Mac patted Lucien's shoulder, then returned to Dee's side. Lucien watched him go. "He'll be dead within a year." "Can you see his future?" Michael asked, not wanting to know his. Lucien grimaced. "No, he has ulcers and won't follow my counsel." "You're a doctor?" "Board−certified −− a very long time ago." "Do viraran get sick?" "Not often, but our humans do," Lucien explained. "As you are now." "You can tell by looking at me?" Lucien laughed, an honest, grown−in−the−belly one. "I could get my stethoscope and blood pressure cuff if you prefer. My props. I make my diagnosis much the same way Katrianna does her magic. I just know." "Am I anemic?" Michael said, parroting Val's opinion. Lucien shot a look at Casey, who blushed and averted her face. "Yes, but you are young and strong. The damage is not permanent. I'll give you some supplements and, barring little greedy−gut's interference, you'll be back to snuff in no time." "How often..." Michael stopped in mid−sentence, the bizarre reality of the situation hitting him full−tilt. "Once a week is safe enough for you. Unfortunately, this a poor time to come into her life." "Because she's fertile?" Michael asked. Lucien nodded. "Ovomaturation is a troublesome period, at best. Except for her gluttonous taste for you, 97

Kate is coping well, as is Tad. Surprisingly." Lucien sounded proud, Michael thought, noticing his use of the affectionate diminutives. "Why surprising?" "Empaths are frequently unstable and always perverse. It is a talent of mixed blessings." Perverse as a skunk living under a porch, Michael agreed silently. "So these supplements, what are they?" "Iron, folic−acid, Vitamin B12. Encourage the production of red cells, increase your hematocrit." Lucien smiled teasingly. "In essence, the same prescription I'll give Linda." Michael looked over at where Linda stood with her husband. She dropped her eyes; she'd been watching them. "Is she anemic?" The little smile resembled Val's in the moment before a zinger and Michael prepared himself. "No, pregnant. The pills are prenatal vitamins." The semi−averted glance from the vivid ice−blue eyes and his ghost of a smile shared a sense of the absurdity. Michael laughed. He'd begun the evening disliking the man, but Lucien's charisma and dry wit had won him over. "Thank you, but I take no credit. We are what we are. You will never meet one of us who isn't charming to a fault, if we choose to be." He threw a meaningful glance at Val. The quiet conversation had drawn the two closer, Michael could smell the particular scent which surrounded Lucien, similar but not identical to Val's spice aroma. "Does Janessa smell good, too?" Michael blurted, embarrassing himself. The question sounded entirely too personal. "Implying that you think I do?" Lucien gestured languidly at Michael's blushing attempt to apologize. He inhaled deeply, closing his eyes. "Yes, she does. Like caramel or maybe like sweetened cream." "Like Casey?" "Similar, not identical," Lucien replied, echoing Michael's own words by coincidence or design. "A viraran trait, all our offspring have a distinctive scent." "Viraran smell like candy?" "Like food, or least, scents you humans associate with food. Our olfactory abilities have different synaptic associations. You would say Katrianna smells like −− ice cream?" Lucien paused, waiting for Michael to acknowledge the comparison. "Her scent is far more complex than that. I would say ice cream smells a bit like Katrianna, but lacks the subtler notes which are completely outside the human capacity of discernment." "Val says Jill smells like basil, but richer. I couldn't smell it." Lucien nodded. "Identifying human−viraran hybrids is simple for us, but the scent is too subtle for your nose." "Through how many generations?" Michael asked, intrigued. "All of them, through the X−chromosome. Mark's sons will not have the scent, but all his daughters will, because he does." "And his daughters' children?" Lucien shrugged. "Some will, some won't. A roll of genetic dice. Unless they marry another hybrid." Michael thought of Jill's six offspring. "How about Jill's?" "She's a lucky girl, so far all hers carry the gene." "What's lucky about carrying the viraran gene?" Lucien looked over the brood. "Beauty, talent, a touch of psychic bend, and excellent health." "All the good stuff, none of the bad?" Lucien smirked. "It's all 'good stuff', Michael, depending on one's perspective. I would trade nothing." "You don't regret not having a permanent companion, hoping for a future and raising your own children, together?" Lucien's cool blue eyes traveled over the intimate group: Val and Katie with their viraran charms; friendly Dona, darkly handsome, laughing happily at some comment of Rob's; Deanne, chestnut−haired, cozily figured, fussing contentedly over her daughter, the winsome, lissome Jill; Mark, friendly and intelligent, hovering protectively beside his Linda. "I believe I have those things, if not exactly as you might categorize as 98

a normal family." "You don't have a wife," Michael said. Lucien met his eyes calmly. "I have my twin −− who is everything." Recalling Val's difficulty in choosing one word to associate with his sister, Michael acknowledged the unnatural attraction viraran twins held for each other. "Unnatural to whom? The feeling is quite natural for us. We would chose to mate with them, but association with human society has swayed our behavior." "So you now mate with strangers? And remain strangers, to each other and your children." Michael's pique resonated in his statement. "Like cuckoos, you lay your children in an other's nest to raise." Lucien's eyes darkened. "A nest I built. A family I support. Nestlings I nurture." "What happens when they've served their purpose?" "Do you think we abandon them? As long as we are welcome, they will have our loyalty. Long after those who know our secret are gone, their descendants will reap the benefits." Lucien shook his head. "We are never free of the debt and will go to any lengths to pay it." "Loyalty? How about love? What of your first family? Do you owe them? Have you repaid that debt?" Michael asked. The children of that family had been lost to the flu and passage of time. "I'm trying, but to re−enter that family's life would be disruptive and would serve no end. We'll make amends through less direct means." "Money." "Or influence." Michael snorted bitterly. "Money and influence. It must be nice to be rich." Lucien chuckled. "Oh, it is. You should try it sometime." An expectant look came into his eyes and Michael succumbed to amusement, letting go his disapproval, which was mostly envy. "What about needing blood? You can't tell me that's not bad stuff." "That's the best stuff of all." A different expression crossed Lucien's fair face. "Now, will you offer? Or do I take?" Michael felt the rodent−quick patter of fear skitter through him. "Val said I was off−limits." "Vladimir follows quaint rules of his own design. I follow viraran custom. I will not feed deeply, but I will feed. By invitation or trespass is your choice." Michael took a half step away, feeling the sudden pressure of Lucien's grasp on his wrist. "Casey said you were strictly−hetero." Misconceptions, or miscommunication? Had he heard what was explained −− or just that which he wanted to hear? "This has nothing to do with sexuality," Lucien's cool voice explained. The frost−blue of the viraran's eyes held him implacably. "Here?" Michael felt like begging no. "Why not?" Lucien shrugged. "No one in this company is a stranger to me, save yourself and Linda. Soon neither of you shall be." Casey −− and Val −− sent a trace of consolation or encouragement. Michael raised his other hand −− feeling trapped and defiled −− and offered his wrist. "Think of the fair, frightened Linda. You set a fine example," Lucien murmured, his lips nuzzling the extended wrist. Closing his eyes against it, Michael felt the cold needle−sharp pang followed by the soothing warmth of the viraran's tongue. Keeping his eyes closed, he accepted the kiss to complete the circle. A light, dispassionate kiss, no more than the obligatory touch of the warm blood−slicked lips. "Very nice, thank you." Michael opened his eyes to look into the very near ones of Lucien. "Was it as bad as you feared?" Lucien whispered. "Worse," Michael answered honestly, knowing the mind−reading Lucien would pick up the thought anyway. He could feel the embarrassed, silent regard of everyone in the large room sticking to him as if he had walked through a spider's web of unwanted attention. "This really sucks." Lucien chuckled, underscoring the unintended pun. "You've faced the monster in his lair and come through only slightly the worse for wear," Lucien opined with a smile on his beautifully reddened lips. "If this is the worst you ever have to face, you will have lived a charmed life. With or without viraran to complicate things, a human's life is an epic." 99

"Oh, hooray!" Michael said, with a complete lack of enthusiasm. Lucien laughed. "You are everything which Katrianna claimed. Polite and irreverent, intelligent and naive. Utterly enthusiastic and stubbornly reluctant. I very much approve of you for her." Lucien patted his shoulder and sauntered in Jill's direction. "Like I give a shit whether you do," Michael muttered toward the retreating back. Lucien turned with a grin. "Ah, but you do." He continued away. Michael hated that Lucien was right. Mark approached deferentially. Linda watched and, at Michael's acceptance of her husband's company, hastened to join them, leaving a wide berth between her path and each of the viraran. Her endeavor would have been funny had the effort not been a complete waste of time. Three sets of viraran eyes followed her every move, completely aware. Handing over a glass of draft beer, Mark grimaced commiserating, opening his mouth to offer sympathy. Michael shook his head. "Don't. Just don't. If you want to offer sympathy, offer it to your wife for dragging her into this." Mark's mouth snapped closed, anger and shame coloring his neck. Linda slid under his arm. Linda's eyes implored before her Cupid's bow lips could phrase the question. "How can...? Why did...? Will it...? I don't know." Mark met Michael's gaze momentarily before looking into his wife's beseeching face. "Honey." She shushed him. "No, I want to know and I want Michael to tell me." "I did tell you." She glared at him. "I love you, Mark, but you've kept this a secret from me −− lied to me −− for seven years." How much worse it had to be for her. Casey hadn't thrown it in his face, but she hadn't hidden the secrets either, merely allowed him to ignore the clues as long as he could. Mark had courted Lin, married her, impregnated her with the next generation of hybrids, but concealed his family secret by word and deed. A fraud perpetrated in the name of love. "What do you want to know, Lin? Did it hurt? Stung more my pride than my wrist. Did I enjoy it?" He considered the hint of ecstasy during Lucien's feeding. "Not much, but venom is a rush. Do I like kissing men? No, I prefer Casey's, even with other people's blood on her lips." He shrugged, being cruelly unsympathetic of her fears. "All in all, Linda, I've got a better deal than you. I can walk away, you're married to the problem." Linda looked at him and, the flush of fury and pity deepening in her cheeks, retorted, "What makes you think you have the better deal? I don't live with one of them; I'm married to a human. I may have to let them drink from me, but as an occasional event, not a way of life −− as it will be for you. You should be careful about walking away. What makes you think they will let you?" Linda drew herself up and, with a strange dignity, flounced away. Michael watched her go. Taking a hefty drink of his beer, he said to Mark, "Nah, you don't need to worry about her. She understands perfectly. Better than I have." "Being with viraran isn't all bad. Katie loves you. She will go to whatever lengths necessary to help you." "Her money and influence for my blood and freedom. Great bargain." Michael drained his glass. "See you later." In a tidied and deserted kitchen, Michael found a bottle of beer in the refrigerator and popped the lid. A noise alerted him as Mr. Charles brought an armful of fresh dishtowels through the back hallway. "Mr. Beiler. Can I help you?" "No, or wait, yes." Michael leaned against the cool metal of the appliance. "Why are you here? Knowing what you know, why do you stay? Did you find out by accident? Do they buy your alliance and silence?" "Mr. and Mrs. Grisome are good people." For a long minute the man stared at him, contemplatively. "I came back from the South Pacific after the war addicted to heroin. Drifted from job to job −− then, finally, unable to get any work, I became a thief. I mugged an obviously wealthy woman and her children at Penn Station. I woke up here several weeks later, having spent withdrawal in a venom−induced sleep." A gray color crowded the man's lips. "Are you okay?" Michael said, helping him to one of the stools. He fetched a glass of tap water, waiting 100

while the houseman sipped and coughed. "Should I get Lucien?" "No. Every time I speak of it, I am overcome with nausea. Something the twins did will forever prevent my wanting another fix." Mr. Charles drank the rest of the water. "I am, however, now addicted to another substance but the supply is outside my control." "Val gets it for you?" Michael guessed. Severus' expression turned puzzled. "What? No. Viraran venom is my craving, along with the subsequent nirvana." "What about Adam? How could you let him be drawn in?" Mr. Charles arose proudly. "In aristocratic families, generations of butlers have served, father to son. How is this any different? My employers are not inbred idiots, but are intelligent and generous people. Their intervention has given me a life of purpose. Without them I would never have had a wife who loved me. Lottie understood my discrete loyalty. Adam is no more bound than I. As long as he remains deserving of the family's trust, he is in no danger from them. Keeping worthy secrets needs no apology." The man walked stiffly toward the door, stopping politely before closing it behind him. "If that is all, goodnight." "Good Lord, Mikey, let's piss everybody off." he said, taking another long draught of his beer. "If you don't, I will," Val said from the other doorway, the usual smug smile on his lips, viraran rosy from a recent feed. For some reason, instead of entrancing him, the sight of the red inflamed Michael's hostility −− for the situation, for the trespasses, for the uncomfortable choices he'd had to make. "Jesus, did you wait for Lucien to start, before chomping your choice of victims?" Michael asked, wondering what color Casey's lips were at the moment. "Some kind of viraran Miss Manners etiquette?" Val waited, arms crossed. "Who was it? Linda? After Lucien threw the first pitch down her baseline? Here!" Michael strode across the room, raising his wrist in Val's face. "You're the only one who hasn't done me. Go ahead." Val's eyes looked razor−sharp in their clarity, but the smile stayed complacently superior. "I said, you're invited," Michael repeated, determined to see Val embarrassed or humbled. "Just because you're throwing a pity party, sport," Val said, nudging the door open with a hip, "Doesn't mean I'll come." He slipped away, leaving Michael alone. From the doorway of the Arizona room, Michael watched Val and Katie perform some Brazilian dance, hotter than a tango. No, he thought, not a performance. They were absorbed −− by the music, by the movements, by each other. Not a misstep, nor a bobble, nor a word of instruction passed between them. Instinct, familiarity, and the unending psychic bond replaced practice and repetition. A cool hand lighted on his shoulder. Deb stood behind him, observing both the dance and his reaction. She looked bleary−eyed and drugged. It occurred to Michael that Deb's blood had been the color in Val's lips. Deb said, hitching her chin toward a pair of Queen Anne chairs, "Come on. I don't think we've said more than three words all weekend." Michael glanced longingly at the dancing pair, but followed the woman to the sitting area. Her dark brunette hair, so stunningly coifed for dinner, had fallen into graceful waves around her shoulders. An over−sized sweater and leggings had replaced the slinky green dress with the flakes of silver. Fuzzy pink slippers clashed with the sophisticated image Michael had assigned to her. The emerald green eyes had none of the bitterness or disillusionment of the first evening, only a worldly acceptance and calm regard. "So how are you doing with all this?" she asked, twisting the chain around her neck. Deb caught some hint of the turmoil in his face and remarked, "Not too good?" Michael felt a burning in the corners of his eyes and, mortified, thought he might cry. "It's a bit much." Deb nodded. "So what will you do?" Michael shrugged, an answer that seemed to satisfy most questions in this house. Deb tugged on her necklace until the clasp caught in her fingers. "Shall I tell you what I did?" She waited for him to nod. Of all the family, he knew the least about Deb. "My mother adored Lucien, as did we all. Though he didn't quite live here, he visited frequently and 101

stayed for long periods of time. She would prepare for him as if he were the President or the Pope." She glanced at Michael, ignoring her necklace for a moment. "I know. What's this got to do with it?" "I'm not going anywhere." She laughed, a cool and musical sound. Michael realized how beautiful Deb must have been, vibrant and cultured. She and Jill together as teenagers would have rendered any man speechless. "You are a pearl among men −− one who looks good and knows how to listen." She kicked off the slippers, drawing her knees up to her chest. Her toenails were painted in the same luminescent color as her fingernails. "There was a point in all that. Oh! I remember. My mother's world revolved around Lucien and the twins. We girls were satellites, not the stars. She loved us, cared for our needs, but never exalted in our accomplishments. Katie and Tad were great as older siblings though. They loved to play any stupid toddler game, for hours, never tiring." "How old are they?" Michael asked. Deb glanced knowingly at him. "I don't have a clue. They looked about ten for as far back as I could remember. They were my baby−sitters, then my playmates, then my peers and, after I became teenaged, pests. At some point they developed the psychic talents and needed blood. That's when..." Deb paused, forehead crinkling, her eyes examining him for insight. "They became your lovers?" Deb sighed. "It's all simpler than that −− and more complicated. I fell in love with Tad. Grew hateful toward Katie, jealous of her place. I finally went away to school, moved to New York and lost myself in my work." "Clothing design?" Michael guessed. "Mostly −− but you're not supposed to sidetrack me." Michael smiled. "So what is the point of your story?" "Now you sound more like a man," she said, laughing. "You've got good examples and bad examples on how to approach this life." Deb gestured vaguely toward the Arizona room. "Dona married Rob, excelled in her career..." "Career? Flowers?" "Botany major, herbal medicine, hybridizing plants to create better yields or resistance to pests and disease. Now she grows teas and flowers. But you mustn't interrupt. Where was I?" "She married, had her career." Deb rolled her eyes toward heaven. "Then took on the inheritance." "Money, house, viraran twins." "Deanne had Jill too early, but other than that she has had a Norman Rockwell life. Married a dusty historian, found worthy causes to support, raised another daughter and enjoys a quietly satisfying life. Good examples." "And?" he prompted as Deb became mired in her thoughts. The clasp of her chain suddenly absorbed her entire attention. "Or my example. Waste your life over something which simply cannot be, become disappointed and bitter, worn out by impossibilities." "You don't look worn out." Deb glanced at him with a gratefully amused smile. "Gallant, too." Michael leaned back in the chair, looking pensively toward the open French doors from which music still floated. "You don't think Katie and I can work?" "Sweetheart, I don't know. You must decide that. You can bash yourself to pieces to change her. She will be what pleases you, but not what either of you need." "So your advice?" he asked, putting her on the spot. Sighing, clicking her clasp on her teeth, and extending her feet back into her slippers, she said. "Advice? Okay. Keep Katie as your lover; marry someone who won't question you about your relationships with this family. Have your white picket fence, John Deere lawn tractor, and summers in Jersey. Raise a couple of kids. Travel occasionally with Katie and Tad, but keep them at arm's length. Don't get involved in their problems. Feed 'em fuck 'em and, above all, forget 'em." Michael stared at her, not expecting the crudeness of her counsel. "Or, on the other hand, dive in. Live the life of an itinerant playboy. Dabble in your mathematics...?" 102

He nodded to confirm her supposition. "As a hobby. Be ready to change your name, hair color and address on a whim. Learn to accept Kate's lovers because there will be others. Not to replace you, but because she'll need their blood. Have a roller−coaster ride of a life, but always remember, for as fast and exciting as a roller coaster is, the ride finishes where it began. You don't get far riding one." "Pointless." "No, not if your purpose is to please Katie as much as she will try to please you. Your life, your choice." The bed was cool and comforting. About the time he had the story all under control −− splat −− sandcastle wedgie. Casey slipped in, stood watching him feign sleep, then left on her nimble dancer's toes. Cold night, the frost had already formed on the window. A movement on the lawn drew his eye. Through the shimmer of the moon on the glazed glass, Michael watched as the figure advanced. No, two people had come from the direction of the greenhouse. The taller one had to be Val. At the thought, the figure paused and looked up at the very window behind which Michael sat, contemplating the night. Summoned by the mental whisper of his name? The smaller figure continued and Val raised his hand in a farewell to his companion. The corner of the kitchen roof blocked Michael's view of his entry. He hadn't been angry with Val. He'd been more angry with Casey, with Lucien and even with Linda and Mark, but mostly with himself. He'd angry for a number of reasons, rare few having to do about Val's feeding. Still fully dressed, Michael slipped on a sweatshirt for the comforting weight. An apology would help him sleep and Val was always good for a laugh at Michael's expense. The fan of light showed beneath the kitchen door. Val had the once immaculate kitchen counters laded with the makings for a sandwich. The viraran glanced up as Michael eased the door open further, looking for a companion. "I'm alone. Hungry?" To his amazement, Michael discovered his stomach did have a hole. "Slice some bread," Val ordered, indicating a loaf of Italian bread on the cutting board. In silence, they assembled two massive layered creations and Val poured two glasses of ice water. Sitting at the butcher block, Michael took a bite, nodding his approval. He washed it down with a drink of water, which tasted perfect, as if his body needed the simple fluid. "I'm sorry." "For what?" Val asked. "Jumping on you earlier. I wasn't mad at you. You were..." "Handy, available, an easy target?" Val supplied. "Accepted. It happens a lot. I make an excellent place to dump emotional baggage, misplaced anger, and sexual frustrations. No one visits my lost and found." He smirked. "Don't worry about it −− in one ear −− out the other. I lose no sleep, and neither should you." "Do you ever sleep? I mean, every time I come down here, you're awake." "I nap. When the house is full, like it is, there are too many currents flowing. When I want to sleep, I hide in the attic from my visitors. Imagine my delight at finding you in occupancy, earlier." "Sorry." "Don't apologize. I slept beside you, enjoying your dreams," Val admitted. "You like to snuggle when you're sleeping." The last comment accompanied a sly smile. "You said..." Michael said and stopped. What had Val said? What had he asked? Not if anything had happened between them, only if Val had sent anything. Not the same question. "Same answer, sport. You snuggled. We slept. End of event." Val snapped his face toward the swing−hinged door, catching some noise or thought. "Speaking of visitors, here comes one now." "I'll go," Michael offered, collecting the remainder of his sandwich. "Stay, I'll flag ya when you should vamos." The door opened a crack, and then swung closed. Michael noticed a wry smile on Val's face. The door swung again, but this time Linda slipped through. She had her arms wrapped tightly around herself, her fists white−knuckled where she gripped her sleeves of her long, flannel robe. "Hey, Michael. Look who's here," Val said. 103

"Hi Linda. Want a sandwich?" Michael asked. Linda glanced from Val to Michael in confusion. Finally, she registered the comment, settling her eyes on the fixings and plates scattered before the men. "Uh, sure. I could eat. A small one." A smile twitched at her lips. "Not like those." Linda indicated the multi−storied structures. Val pulled out the stool beside his, patting the seat. "Park it here, doll." A moment of panicked indecision crossed her face. "Don't worry. I won't bite." He paused before adding, "Yet" Linda perched on the stool, ready to bolt. The viraran stood and, pulling a glass from a shelf, poured her a helping of milk. "Turkey, Swiss, lettuce, tomato, mayo?" he asked. "Fine." Linda replied, slipping more comfortably onto the stool. She reached out and fished a dill pickle slice from the open jar on the butcher's block. Val assembled the sandwich and, placing the plate before her, planted his hands on either side of her, trapping her on the stool. Michael saw the panic leap into her face, as she realized the trick. "Why are you here, Linnie?" Val whispered, nuzzling her ear. Linda felt Michael's eyes and met them. She squared her shoulders and turned resolutely to face Val, chin held high, swallowing hard in her effort to speak. Michael knew the feeling, just how easy begging would be. "Mark said I should offer," she stated, the quaver in her voice admirably small in Michael's opinion. Val loosened the grip of one of her hands, then the other. With amazing torturous slowness, he pulled one end of the belt of her robe. "Offer what?" Val teased, lightly. Michael stood. Val's gaze caught him. "Sit down," he ordered. Linda started at the harsh tone. "My neck, not the rest of me, Tad." She tried to tug the robe from his hands. "The same as I did for Lucien. Nothing more." "I'm not Lucien. Katie isn't me. I want to touch you as I feed." She held herself stiffly against his trespassing caresses. "You were willing enough earlier, I am no different. Kiss me as you did yesterday, then I will accept your offer and set you free." He nuzzled her lips. Michael stepped toward the door; he'd had enough of watching the little one−act play. Suddenly the viraran blocked his path. "I said stay." The predatory green eyes dared him to move forward. Michael backed into the stool. "And you." Val's attention flickered back to Linda. "Does Mark know?" "Know what?" Linda murmured. "When he sent you, did he know you are pregnant?" Linda looked incredulous. "What difference does that make?" Val stepped closer to her and gave her a twisted smile as she shrank away. He wrapped the robe securely around her and tied the belt. "I don't feed from pregnant women." "But Lucien..." she began, rubbing the small scratch on her neck. Val sighed. "Once more, for the record. I am not Lucien. Or Kate. They do, but I do not. Mark knows these things about me, therefore he does not know of your pregnancy." He picked up the pickle she had abandoned when he had trapped her and took a bite. He offered her some, clearly expecting her to accept it. Linda nibbled the end, leaving the portion between his fingers for him to finish. He tossed it in the air, catching the bite neatly in his mouth. Linda laughed, her tension relieved. By his levity or her reprieve, Michael wondered which. Chewing, Val touched his lips lightly to hers. "Thanks anyway. Eat your sandwich. I have something for you. Gimme a minute to finish it." Val descended into the basement. The minute stretched into several with Michael gradually becoming aware of Linda's scrutiny from beneath her lashes. "You like him, don't you?" she asked, dropping her gaze to concentrate on the sprinkle of breadcrumbs before her. With exaggerated care, she pushed them with her forefinger into a neat pile, and then widened her area of attention to include the place where Val had eaten. Michael thought about her question. How did he feel about Val, or Lucien, or Casey? Drawn and repelled, fascinated and repulsed, everything he felt about each of the viraran had an equal opposing emotion. Did he like Val? Which one? The clown−faced imp, the gutter−mouthed asshole, the angry violent man, or the one he'd glimpsed, now and then, a person bearing deep strongly held convictions? "I think he's beautiful." Linda blushed. "Like one of those poisonous tree frogs from South America. You 104

can't help admiring the vivid colors. You know better than to touch, but you find yourself reaching out anyway." She brushed the mound of crumbs onto a napkin, folding the edges over like wrapping on a birthday gift. "It worries me. Will I, at some point, forget about the poison? Mark has, and Jill. Can we become so accustomed to the dangers that we finally ignore them entirely?" Linda's astute observations had defined his disquiet completely. He'd missed her smarts, fooled by the bubbly blond facade. "I don't think Mark meant to lie to you. Explaining his family's connections would be hard." "God, you make them sound like the mob. I only wish!" Her voice broke slightly. "I mean −− they're vampires. Have you known for long?" Michael shrugged. "I probably knew for a lot longer than I can admit. Now that I'm being truthful with myself, I think I knew from the first time I saw Katie." He saw the tremble in her hands. "As for being scared, sometimes I am, in a panicky irrational sort of way." "Why aren't we more frightened? I think they can dampen our fear," she suggested uncertainly. Her theory sounded plausible to Michael. "Or maybe the venom. When Casey kisses me, I feel no anxiety, only peaceful capitulation." "Venom? Is that why...?" Linda said, glancing at the scratches on her wrist. With the sudden knowledge that Casey had made those marks, Michael blushed, imaging what had followed. He knew the intensity of desire that accompanied the bite, intimately familiar with the lush abandon of Casey's kiss. "Miss me?" Val asked, from the stairs. Michael got the impression the viraran had heard most, if not all, of the conversation. "Take a peek, doll." Val slipped his arms around her shoulders, placing an album before her. He flipped it open to the first picture. "Oh!" Linda's appreciation changed the simple syllable into an eloquent tribute to Val's talent. The pictures of herself and the children mesmerized her, as Val flipped through one by one. His frequent kisses on her neck went unnoticed. With a whisper as gentle as a kitten's whisker, Val said, "You have dazzling children." "Yes," she sighed. "Then why would you want to abort this one?" Val asked, still softly but with a dangerous edge. Her eyes widened with astonishment, and then squeezed shut with mortification. Her face in her hands, Linda's shoulders began to vibrate, slowly at first, building to a wracking as the muffled sobs broke through the barrier of her fingers. "I can feel a presence. It exists. Simple thoughts and ego are there already −− sentience if not sapience. You are the universe to it." "It?" "Lil' bit doesn't know gender so neither do I, but you do, don't you?" "A girl." Michael asked, "How do you know?" Val glanced at him. "She just does." He kissed away the tears on her cheeks. "Better than pickles," he said with a smile. Linda wasn't quite ready to return his banter. "So why the thoughts of a slice and dice?" Lin winced at his choice of words. "I only thought about it, I wouldn't have done it." "Yeah, you would have," Val disagreed. "Why don't you tell Michael what noble reason you have for wanting to steal her life?" Linda's face appeared stricken. "I think she has the right to choose," Michael interjected. Val sneered. "Buying into the party line? I expected better. Nope, Linnie's rights ended when she chose to spread her pretty thighs." "Quit talking about me as if I wasn't here! Okay, I might have. I'm tired of feeling like a brood mare. I'm sick of being fat and I'm sick of morning sickness and swollen ankles. I'm sick of diapers and temper tantrums." She slid off the stool and pushed against his arm, which blocked her path to the door. "Excepting your own tantrums," he tormented. "Sit down. You've not looked at all the photos." "I've seen enough." She glared at him, not backing down. Val bent his arm, holding her back to his chest immobile, forcing her to face the album. "Turn the page," Val ordered. 105

Reaching over the counter, Michael raised the next page to expose the first of Linda's boudoir poses. After allowing her to look at the picture, Val nodded to Michael to turn another. Gradually Linda relaxed and finally reached for the pages, Val's grip no longer hindering her. "So beautiful," Val said in his coaxing way. "Pictures don't lie." "Your talent makes the subjects look good," she responded in a tone that begged for his disagreement. "No, my talent allows me to capture that which is already there." Linda ran her finger along the edge of the page, yanking it back in pain. "Ouch. Damn." She caught the injured digit in her other hand, then froze as the blood welled up in a thin wire across her skin. A quick series of emotions flicked across her features; dread, revulsion, then shame and resignation. Slowly, Lin placed her bloody finger against Val's mouth. His eyes never left hers as her blood spread like an oil across his lips. Using a cat's care, Val licked the length of her finger, closing his eyes. With bloodstained lips, he kissed her. "Nice, thank−you," he murmured, reminding Michael of Lucien's expression of appreciation after biting his wrist. "Now get the hell out of here, before I lose my reservations." Val made the motion of swatting her rump, allowing her to easily dodge his intent. She grabbed the album and, with a shy wave, slipped out of the kitchen. Val watched her leave; his eyes didn't waver from the white−painted panels of the swinging door until the last small quiver had quieted. "Ah, well." Val sighed. "She won't be pregnant forever." "That was nice of you," Michael said. "Nah, totally in my own best interests. Lining up future lunches." Michael snorted, though he couldn't be certain if Val's words were meant as a joke. Pulling two jackets from the handle of the basement door, Val tossed one to Michael. "Let's take a walk." The night was cold, the grass as stiff and sharp as miniature swords raised in salute to some tiny warrior king. Michael's nostrils pasted shut in the first intake of the frigid air. Val set a leisurely pace, pausing now and again to admire the moon's artistry on the frost−gilded landscape. Distantly, the unmistakable −− somehow comforting −− hum of traffic could be heard lightly polluting the quiet with its low bass. Darkness drained the color from the trees and shrubs, leaving them a sooty gray−green, sprinkled with the silver of ice. The estate's walls loomed, bastions of security behind which viraran secrecy flourished. Val led the way to a small gate, bypassing the large, car−sized, automatic ones blocking the driveway. The pedestrian gate had been carved in a hidden niche, camouflaged from within by a corner in the wall's course, and from without by a strategically placed garden surrounding a large, upright slab of granite. The crystalline flecks in the granite caught the moonlight, scintillating the glow a thousand−fold achieving the grandeur of a marble sculpture. A few yards away, the twin lions, stunningly white, adamant in their regal duties, guarded the inhabitants of Briar Knoll. Val chose a place against the bulwarks, the base of the wall serving as narrow perch. "Far as you go, sport," Val said, breathing deeply in the pristine air. "You're leaving?" "Yep." "Without saying good−bye?" Val shrugged. "I never say good−bye. They won't be surprised." "Mark said you piss them off to make it easier to leave." The cold of the wall soaked through Michael's jeans and flesh, chilling his bones. "His theory." Michael bit his lip to remain quiet. Val would fill the void. "I can deal with one or two, balancing the conflicting wants and desires. Conversely, large crowds are even easier. A mob mentality is homogenous." Val pulled out his pipe and baggie, Michael growled. Giving his companion an amused glance, Val loaded the bowl with a single hit. "For me, not you." The lighter flared blindingly. "Mark said you don't get a high," Michael blurted in confusion. "His theory," Val said again, holding his breath then releasing it. "So you do get off?" Val stared into the night, eyes unfocused. "Umm? My eyes see what my mind feels." 106

"What do you feel?" "I don't feel anything, except me." In a world where everyone's emotions dragged through Val's mind like the teeth of a cultivator, numbness would be a welcome change of pace. No wonder then, he kept his stash handy. "I cherish my family, but one at a time. A houseful is torture. I need to please, and I'm battered by the time I call quits." "You can please all of the people some of the time and some of the people all of the time. But you can't please all of the people all of the time," Michael dredged up the quote. "What about your car?" Val laughed. "You worry about the most irrelevant things. It's a rental. Serverus will drop it off at the airport." "So you'll walk?" Michael asked. Tilting his head toward the traffic sounds, Val said, "Somewhere out on the highway is a trucker who knows exactly what he wants from me." "A trucker?" Concern tinged Michael's voice. "Or a Bible salesman, or a lonely housewife, or a Dead Head on the way to a concert. That's how I ended up at Woodstock." Woodstock? Michael avoided the red herring with difficulty, keeping his focus on the real issue. "You'll hitch. Where will you go?" Val smiled. "I'll go home, to my pregnant wife." Michael's mind flushed of questions, then refilled. "Wife? You're married?" Val's shrug answered both questions. "Married, like Lucien married Sophie." "As he married Rebecca before her, and since her another." "Another?" "One wife for each of his twin's pregnancies or, in our case, two −− since Rebecca died before we could fend for ourselves." "She'll raise Casey's children?" "Yep." Val stood and stretched, tucking his paraphernalia in his coat pocket. "So, sport. You gonna kiss me good−bye?" "You don't say good−bye," Michael said, smiling, recognizing a good exit line when he heard it. "True. See ya." Val turned into the night, getting a few yards before turning back. "It's going to get worse before things get better. Hang in, if you can," he said, no longer smiling. Michael nodded shortly, making no promise except to do his best. "Be careful. Hitching's dangerous." Val laughed at the warning. "For whom? Me? Or them?" Michael watched as the viraran's form melded with the night, becoming part of the darkness. Spring 2003 Kate's plan had worked perfectly. Doctor Huxton had recommended him to Dr. Weston for an assistantship. Michael dragged the pillow over his head, creating a warm, dark, but airless cave from which he would have to emerge. A crunching sound, followed by the unmistakable slurp of hot coffee ended his mind's rambling through the unexplored territories of his recaptured memories. Coffee and bagels. Katie sat cross−legged at the head of the bed, the morning daily strewn around like papers for a puppy. Her hair, combed back into one of those fearsome−looking clips with the long, pointed teeth, fell in feathers around her cheeks and ears. She whispered something under her breath with a nod, evidently agreeing with some opinion on the editorial page. Pausing between one bite and the next, she turned her chin enough to look at him through the corners of her eyes. "Sleep well?" Michael stretched hugely, feeling the cricks and pulls throughout the length of his spine, down into the long bones of his legs. He groaned a little sigh, rolling to cuddle into her jeans−clad leg, snaking his arms around her waist. Her hand settled lightly onto his hair, combing through the bed−headed swirls and whirls, 107

raking his scalp with lovely pressure. "I liked Val, at least for awhile. Didn't I?" he murmured, relishing the feel of her warmth through the denim and in her fingers. "He is charming and wonderful." Michael floated in the free−form space between a commitment to awakening and the siren song of dozing. The smell of coffee nudged him toward the conscious side. "How much of what I'm remembering is real?" He could feel the wobble that indicated a shrug. "What's real? You remember what seemed factual to you." Her comment defined the problem, a forehead−wrinkling, eye−squinting, headache−producing puzzler. Which is more real, reality or the participant's perception? "Did you bring me any breakfast?" he said, reluctantly opening his eyes. With a wave of her hand, she indicated the bedside stand. Orange juice, coffee, a bagel with a small cup of cream cheese and another of jam, and an icing−slathered Danish awaited his pleasure. "Cheese or jam?" she asked, setting aside the paper. "OJ or coffee?" "How about the pastry?" he asked, reaching over her legs. She smacked his hand. "Dessert. Mine." "Oh yeah?" He snagged the pastry as she unsuccessfully tried to push it from his reach. His first bite was his last. Her quick reflexes reclaimed the treat before he had a chance to gloat. Katie dodged one grab and the next, consuming the treat between each attempt. Michael fell back into the pillows in defeat. Kate plopped a second Danish onto his chest. "This one is yours." Her brown eyes, sparkling from the mock battle and the joke, beseeched his approval with a wistful expression. Michael smiled and she went back to reading the paper. Eating the pastry and the bagel with cream cheese, he remembered mornings like this one, both with Casey and with Liz. Mornings which were so damned normal as to be almost parodies of domestic bliss, but always with the edge of play−acting. "For you, maybe. I was always perfectly content, not acting, not pretending, just happy to be with you. I bet it was the same for her." "What do you know about Liz and me, how it was?" Michael asked, inexplicably annoyed by her presuming to know the workings of his marriage. The contentment vanished from her eyes. "Only what I observed." She slid off the bed. He dragged on a pair of boxers to follow her into the living room. Passing his answering machine he saw the steady blink of the message indicator. "They must think I died, missing so much work." Kate shrugged. "I called, told them you were ill." She yanked the recalcitrant balcony door open with a squeal of un−lubricated metal. Not bothering to close it, she stood on the patio looking up at her house. "Go shower, let's go for a drive." "Where are we going?" Michael asked. The drive had turned into a journey. Katie had headed south and east toward the bay area, never consulting a map, listening to CDs −− Best of Hootie and the Blowfish, at the moment −− driving with a pensive expression. She would glance at him, from time to time, meeting his smile with a brief twitch that could have meant anything, but gave him the impression they had embarked on a course she expected to bring trouble. "A place I know. A place I like." She patted his knee. She had the ragtop down and the stereo too loud for conversation. The sun warmed his shoulders. The wind slipped around him like a cocoon, insulating him from anything but the immediate. He rested his arm along the back of the seat, finding the tender part of her neck with his fingers. Laying his head back, he looked to the sky. Abruptly, without the help of her venom, a memory snippet intruded. Fall 1979 "Don't you think we should get back?" Michael asked, as Val pumped another handful of quarters into the jukebox. Punching in a couple of numbers, Val ignored the question. "Your break," the guy standing next to the pool table said, as he chalked his cue stick. 108

"Hold this, sport." Val passed his beer and positioned the cue ball. A wad of bills had been discretely tucked under the posted notice. 'Pool tables for amusement only −− No gambling tolerated!' From what Michael could see, not only was it tolerated; betting on the game was a foregone conclusion. The pile got bigger with each shot, buck a pocket. He and Casey had come to Newark for one of her meetings. Val had been waiting at the airport, holding a placard stating 'VIRAR'. Casey had grabbed the cardboard from his hands, laughing. "Idiot." She radiated relief and joy as her twin swung her around with a kiss. Michael, his senses opened to psychic flow, could identify individual emotions. Val included Michael in the next hug. "Hey sport. Luggage?" Michael indicated the couple of carry−ons and Val looked at Casey in disbelief. "He wouldn't let me bring a suitcase for a weekend," she pouted, lips twitching, a smile forming. "Beast," Val said to Michael with a wink. They spent the evening in the hotel's lounge, dancing with whoever asked, and each other. Casey had fed on these strangers, saving her bloody kisses for Val. She knew how much Michael hated the taste of other people's blood on her lips. She had to feed. He couldn't fulfill her need. Michael ignored the ritual. She made the act as easy to overlook as she could. A truce balanced between her necessities and his sensibilities. At least he didn't feel cold all the time, his anemia had corrected with this compromise. Casey had left for her meeting in the late morning, vaguely promising to return in time for supper. She hadn't. Val had dragged him to a dive in a working class neighborhood where he ordered cheeseburgers and onion rings for their dinner. Val had put up a quarter to claim a game of pool, which he'd won easily. Three hours later, having lost the table twice and regained it, he'd pocketed nearly a hundred dollars. Michael had felt the viraran becoming more distracted, radiating worry, and the send buzzed like an electric fence under his skin. Val bollixed the break, sinking nothing, leaving his opponent with a couple of straight−ins on solids. A couple of spectators cheered, "Go, Jimbo." Jimbo obligingly sunk the two ball in a nice bank into the side pocket. He had challenged Val three times, each time losing by a narrow margin. He knocked off all the possible shots, expertly. Left with breaking up the bunch or tapping the cue ball into the mess, leaving the wasted shot to Val, he hesitated before deciding. The white ball came to rest in the middle of the pack. "Sink one outta that shit," Jim said, stepping back from the table. Val chalked his stick, examining his options. Chair legs squealed, rubbing across the worn linoleum. From closer to the bar, a small tangle of people stood from their table. Michael noticed Val watching the group from beneath his long lashes. As the door swung shut behind them with a wind−blown bang, the antsy feeling left Michael's skin. Taking a long swig of his beer, Val walked around the table, stopping to glance out the meshed glass of the door. "You gonna shoot, or play with your stick all night?" Jim called out. His friends laughed, slapping him on the back. A woman, who'd been admiring the fit of Val's jeans, whispered to her girlfriend, both giggling at her comment. Val snickered. He handed his beer to Michael, murmuring, "She said she would volunteer to play with my stick all night." Michael stifled a laugh. "Got any ideas?" Val asked, hitching his chin toward the table. "Yeah, lose the game. Let's go back to the hotel," Michael said. "Unless you can do a five banked shot on the eleven." Val took another look. '?' Michael caught the sent question and thought back about the angles. Laughing, Val stepped up to take the shot. "Bank on the eleven, back here." He patted the pocket to his right. "What?" Jim asked, coming back to take a look. "Like hell." The corners of Val's mouth twitched. "Wanna bet?" He pulled the accumulated wad of cash from his front pocket, laying the crumbled bills on top of the light fixture hanging over the table. "Ninety−three bucks and the game." 109

Jim weighed the money with his eyes. Slowly, he laid out a matching amount. With feigned nonchalance, Jim sauntered back to his stool. His Adam's apple bobbled hard with the next gulp of beer. "Bev'll be pissed if you lose the grocery money," one friend said. "Shut the fuck up," Jim said. His knuckles were white around the neck of the bottle he held. Val lined up the cue ball, giving a hard tap to provide the momentum for five banks. The shot was dead on, Michael knew after the second bank. The third and fourth angles were met with utter silence from the rowdy crowd. Fifth bank, and the cue ball tapped the eleven, perfectly in line with the corner pocket. Val stood motionless, watching, his cheek against the pool stick. Jim's eyes widened and his mouth formed the word, "No." The ball slowed at the brink of the pocket, and tottered at the edge −− and stayed out. The spectators were completely silent, expecting the ball to drop. "Your game," Val said evenly. Jimbo picked up the cash, hand trembling. "Have a drink on me. That was incredible." Val accepted the shot of tequila. He slid a glance at Michael, who shrugged slightly. Val had tanked it −− tanked so spectacularly, no one could accuse him of a deliberate loss. Michael waited in the brisk night air, strolling toward the corner. Val had stopped to have a word with his female admirer. The air smelled like diesel fuel. A wrinkle of send hit him, a subtle crawling on his spine. A whiff of citrus, then a pain so needle−pure screaming would be a desecration. Venom ecstasy hit him, hard arms holding his body from exploding with the expansion of his soul. Michael leaned into the teeth, begging wordlessly for more venom. "Hey, asshole." Val's toneless voice echoed in the alley. "He's mine." A chuffing sound, like a pygmy's blowgun, chattered in Michael's head. The hot arms released him. His knees turned into sock−puppets. Michael thought falling sounded like a good idea and tried. "Straighten up." Val grabbed his arm, keeping him from succeeding. "Walk, Michael." Val manhandled him toward the parking lot. Michael glanced back at the pile of dead flesh, feeling queasy. The streetlight exposed splattered blood on Val's hands. His or the other's, Michael didn't want to know. Warm stickiness on his cheek when wiped showed gray−pink on his hand. Damn, Michael wished he hadn't looked. The nausea overwhelmed him, and Val held his head, and then stuffed him into the car. The car's heater blew warm air on Michael, slowing the shiver and calming him. "He tried to kill me." "Yep." Val drove more slowly than Michael had ever seen him. "Viraran?" "Yep." Val turned down another street and changed lanes. Michael shivered. "Like you −− and Casey." "No. A renegade. A vampire." The car made another turn, and Val threw a watchful glance at the rear−view mirror. "I think..." Michael said, remembering the venom. Val pulled over, waiting. "What?" "I would have let him." Val nodded. "Venom bliss." "Can you and Casey do that?" "We won't." "But you can?" Val pulled back into traffic. He glanced at the shattered Michael. "Use some tissues, wipe your face." Michael wiped away the gore, careful not to look at what had clung to him. "Can you?" "Yeah," Val grinned. "Even better." "Better?" "I wouldn't try to kill you." He pulled into a parking lot, positioning the car to watch the road. "What are you looking for?" "His friends." Michael's shaking worsened. "More vampires?" 110

Val pulled off his jacket, laying it over Michael's lap. "No, just his stable of humans. Shhh." Michael drifted. "He tried to kill me." Val's eyes glowed in the meager light of the instrument panel. Why? It made no sense. If the renegade had friends, why feed from a stranger? Val supplied an answer without waiting for Michael to form the question. "So I'd kill him." Spring 2003 The crunching gravel awoke Michael from his dream. A large carved sign proclaimed 'Chesapeake Retreat'. "Hi," he murmured, shifting upright in the comfortable bucket seat. Katie smiled. "We're here." "Stop." He felt the nausea from the dream returning. The car rolled to a gentle stop at the side of the driveway. Michael tottered out, took a few quick steps to lean on a flowering cherry tree. Deep breaths. Wasn't going to work. His vomiting turned to dry heaves, and finally to gasps. When Michael at last returned to the car, Katie held out a bottle of water. She sat on the back, cross−legged, watching him. He leaned on the trunk, rinsed his mouth, and then drank the entire liter. "Bad one," he muttered. Katie scooted around, slid down the trunk, and came to rest against his back. Her arms and legs encircled him, sharing her warmth. "The memorable stuff is all bad from here on, isn't it?" he asked. She kissed the back of his neck, and deftly undid one button on his shirt to slip her hand against his skin. Michael stroked her wrist. "We were good together, day−to−day," she said softly. He thought maybe she had those quick−dry tears in her eyes, but didn't look. "Do you remember the blizzard? I never saw so much snow." January 1980 "Casey, wake up. You've gotta see this." Michael said, yanking off her covers. She grumbled, and then shrieked as he tossed a snowball on her bare stomach. "Did it snow, again?" She asked, irritably, rolling out of bed at his incessant urging. He wrapped a blanket around her, while pushing her to the patio door. "Oh wow!" she said. The snow had started falling the morning before. During the night the already heavy snow had been enhanced by the arrival of a band of moist Gulf air and an Alberta clipper cold front that had grown wings. The snow had drifted into six−foot drifts against walls, and stood knee deep in the protected lees. "All classes canceled, babe. You know what that means?" Casey chuckled sleepily, rubbing her hand down his neck. "We spend the day in bed?" "Wrong! We get to play in the snow." She looked out the window with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. "Play?" Despite her initial reluctance, Casey dove into the homemade Winter Olympics with her usual enthusiasm for anything Michael wanted. The short walk to Point Placid left them breathless from breaking through the drifted snow. Children had already packed a serpentine course that would have given a bobsledder pause. Michael traded rides down the hill for the chore of trekking back up the long slope, dragging the mixture of plastic toboggans, aluminum saucers, and wooden runner sleds behind him. Other adults, freed from colorless cubicles and repetitive factory assembly lines, joined the procession of joyful faces, braving the twisting path down the hill. Shouting with abandon, leaving their age at the top, they emerged from the bottom of the chute as children with extra facial lines, additional years of experience. The sheer overwhelming abundance of the snow exiled the real world to a galaxy away. It was Friday. Sunday would be soon enough to consider the how−to's of commuting, grocery shopping, and classes. Twin walls arose in the adjoining field, beginning as bulwarks for the apocalyptic snowball fight between 111

the children who had awoken as adults and the children who had yet to awaken as adults. The snowball melee withered into snowman making, an army of two and three segmented shapes soon dotted the no−man's land between the walls. Extending the walls into a huge ring defined a paddock. Snow−horses were built to inhabit the new structure. Casey and Michael joined a group of youngsters for fox and geese. Half the fun was designing and creating the intricate paths and labyrinthine escape routes of the domain. Evolving with each new game, the maze dominated the flat area next to the hedgerow of trees dividing the open area from a housing development. These homes spewed forth legions of moms with picnic baskets, dry mittens, and thermoses. Their largess was not limited to their own offspring. They offered sandwiches, Styrofoam cups of cocoa or coffee, or plastic−wrapped Rice Krispie Treats until their baskets or boxes were emptied. The impromptu carnival lasted until late afternoon when the sun lost its warmth. The dads from the development raided their own woodpiles to build a bonfire to extend the merriment into the dusk. Gradually the crowd dwindled, leaving only couples; singles brought together by the pagan enthusiasm of the snow−day, or young marrieds without kids needing to be fed and then bed after the exhausting interlude. Michael looked around for Casey. He found her. He watched her laughing in the increasing darkness, accepting a drink from a brown−paper wrapped bottle, her lips viraran−red from some trespass on one of their playmates of the day. For the first time all day, he felt cold. Spring 2003 Chesapeake Retreat. Once a private home, the mansion had been transformed into a country inn. The clerk smiled as Katie opened the ornately carved oak door and stepped into her field of vision. "Mrs. Beiler. I worried when you didn't arrive last night." Michael shot a question at Katie. She ignored him to smile at the young woman. "Hi, Jess. Last minute problems. Did you save our room?" "Yes. This early in the season, we're not full yet." Jess slid a register form across the vintage Shaker desk for Katie to sign. "Hi, Mr. Beiler. Working too hard, still?" Michael felt stupidly slow, missing something in the exchange. Katie answered for him. "Yes, always. Unless you speak binary or Xml, he has no time for us mere humans." "I'll get your bags..." "We'll manage. 205?" Katie asked. "As usual. Lunch is in the frig." The phone rang and, as she turned to answer it, Jess waved goodbye. "Desk. Miss Carter. May I help you?" Katie pulled the car around to the side of the Victorian structure. A gravel path led down toward the bay, which glimmered through the mature trees. Opening the tiny truck, she pulled a pair of overnight bags from the space. Michael took them from her wordlessly. Their room was in the carriage house, located around the first bend in the path. As he stepped into the weirdly familiar room, Michael felt the equally familiar skitter of fear. Katie left him alone, occupying herself in the bathroom. He wandered out to the deck. The deck furniture was wrought iron and redwood. Money, he thought, looking across the bay's sparkling water. A sailboat ricocheted from one channel marker to another. A canoe rocked in the wake of a distant speedboat trolling across the inlet. Come summer the waters would be packed with all manner of floating transportation, he imagined. Michael glanced back into the cozy room. The large sleigh bed had mounds of pillows in lacy shams matching the curtains. A Jacob's Ladder quilt hung from a frame, ready to ward off chills. The fireplace was laid, a long match poking up in a convenient spot. An old−fashioned sideboard held a tiny refrigerator and a microwave. A coffee maker was partly hidden behind another door. Two comfortable chairs book−ended a bistro table covered in a flowered linen cloth, awaiting romantic tête−à−têtes or dinners for two, overlooked the bay. There were candles somewhere, he was certain. 112

Katie emerged from the bathroom, standing just within his peripheral vision. She leaned against the railing, waiting. "Since when are you Mrs. Beiler?" he asked, knowing the answer would cause another memory cascade, another disappointment, another brick in the wall. Sighing, she glided next to him. He pulled back and she leaned her elbows on the railing, accepting the rebuke. "I need fed twice a week. Carl was Tuesday's lunch. You were my Friday afternoons. Once a month, Carl comes to dinner at my house. One weekend a month, you and I come here." "No," Michael said. "I would remember." Katie made a noise of amused disgust. "No, Michael. Absolutely you would not remember." She slipped into one of the cushion covered lounge chairs. "For the past four years, I've been Anne to you. I've kept out of your daily life, trying to prevent this enlightenment. I let us just be lunch dates and the occasional weekend. All the while, I wanted to be totally yours again, as Katie. The last time we came here, you called me Casey once. Your memory block had begun to crumble. When you called my service, asking for Katie, I knew this incarnation of me and you had ended." Michael opened his mouth to object, then hesitated. The caller ID had said Anne Runiz. Hadn't he thought the name sounded familiar? He pictured the speed dials on his office phone. 'AnRu' was one of the labels. The counter clerk recognized him; Carl knew his name and livelihood. Had the waiter at the Chinese restaurant been overly friendly, as if he were a regular face? "We lunched at Shanghai Buffet?" She nodded. "Then go back to my place?" Flittering memories flashed like the sun on the bay. He'd been comfortable with the arrangement, some part of him preferring not to get too close to his Friday recreation. Anne had been the representative of the Ruiz Group. He'd accepted their backing of Bene−gene Labs. The brainchild had been spawned when he had spent a semester teaching at a community college in New York with Kevin Grant. Kevin had treated Michael like a long−lost friend from his first day on campus. Now Michael knew why. Kevin remembered their first introduction at the conference in Philly so long ago. The simple concept −− to apply computer imaging to genetics and create bio−techniques for manufacturing solutions for genetic diseases −− had succeeded beyond either of their wildest, wine−induced imaginings. They'd expanded the idea to include bioengineering of plants and bacteria for specific useful by−products. They developed the processes then sold the patent to the highest bidder. At any given time, Bene−gene had three or four patent applications in the tubes, and many more in various stages of production. Dupont, Merck, and ADM had paid big money for Bene−gene to develop several of their gene−splicing projects. The Ruiz Group controlled fifty−one percent of Bene−gene. He and Kevin owned the rest. The bean counters were talking IPO in the next six months, but Ruiz had vetoed the plan. Michael suddenly realized why. They'd lose autonomy, lose the authority to steer research. Anne's official suggestions had all been money generators. More importantly, each had led to additional viable idea−germs in the think tanks Kevin held monthly. The newest one, aptly if jokingly tagged Liquid Plumber, would treat common forms of arteriosclerosis, cutting the mortality rate of coronary artery disease and strokes by eliminating the plaque on the walls of blood vessels leading to the heart and brain. His pillow talk with Anne had often meandered into Bene−gene's business. Pillow talk. He remembered their initial meeting. All morning the tide had flowed between them, his concentration broken time and again by the averted, lash−occluded glance from her brown eyes. The banker guy had called a break for coffee. Michael had sought the refuge of a washroom on the next floor. Anne had stepped in, and neither had paused before embracing. No, not embracing... Consuming each other in desperation. They'd celebrated the contract signing together, in her suite at the Adams Mark, coming up for air only long enough to call Kevin with the good news. How had Anne come into his life at all? Holland, he decided. The image of the bridged canals and narrow cobbled streets sent a brain−freezing shiver. The skitter−patter of his heart steered him away. Coward, she'd called him. She was probably right, he thought, letting the memory go unexplored. 113

"When did you and I break up? In college?" He and Liz had married that first summer after graduation. They'd piled their essentials into his old car. The same car Casey had given him. Why had he not given it back? They'd traveled to California to Caltech in time for him to take up second session as a GA with Dr. Westphal. Liz's accountant's paycheck paid for the apartment, his for food. He remembered the days with absolute clarity. They'd slept on a mattress on the floor. Used boxes and stolen milk crates as dressers and yard−saled to find furniture whenever they scraped together a couple extra dollars. It had been an adventure, though Liz had bitterly complained more than once about the amount of time she spent alone, her job, the lack of family and friends. Katie shrugged. "After Spring Break." She waited. "So almost twenty years later, you find me again." The grant application popped into his head. He and Liz had attended a dinner party for the successful applicants. Liz, six months pregnant with Kyle, had begged off after dinner and returned to their room. He'd drifted out to the balcony to get away from the smoke of cigarettes, which floated eye high in the suite. Tanya had followed on his heels, as he had known she would. Their affair had lasted several months, until Kyle's birth caused him a change of heart. Tanya, who smelled of vanilla, had a Dorothy Hamill haircut, and chocolate brown eyes. Dammit. Katie, again. "You knew I wasn't a faithful husband?" he said, bitterly. "Define faithful. You had one affair with different women. Or different affairs with the same woman." "There were others." She laughed. "Nope, you wouldn't have had the time. Once a year for a couple of months, you would have a fling with me. Let's see. Cassie, Karen, Tanya, Anya, April, Theresa, Tessa, Vicki, Dana, Becky, Beth, Teri..." "Okay, enough." Each name brought back a face, each now revealed as Katie in one of her disguises. "Then there were the quickies, one−night stands. An airplane, a restaurant bathroom, your car, a motel in Ohio and the odd stolen kiss." Ohio? On his way to his father's funeral, he'd noticed the purple−haired tattered−looking teenager standing outside the truck stop restaurant. He paid his bill and ordered a cheeseburger to go. On his way out he gave the bag to the girl, meeting her eyes. Resolutely, Michael climbed into his car and continued the trip. Twenty miles later, swearing at himself, he turned around. She'd been waiting. He never asked her name, just furiously used her body that night to vent his turbulence. He abandoned her somewhere west of Harrisburg when she got out of the car to use the restroom at a BP station. "How could I not know?" Michael said. Kate snorted. "Subconsciously, you did. You recognized me. When your conscious mind couldn't ignore the obvious anymore, you broke it off. You always said, 'I gotta give my marriage another chance.' I would leave for awhile, alter my looks a little, then come back and start again." "Poor Liz." Katie smothered a very pissed look. "What?" he asked. "Just tell me." She shook her head and, escaping his displeasure, went inside. Katie opened the refrigerator. Two wrapped sandwiches and a container of pasta salad were waiting. She opened a beer and, ignoring the tall glasses provided, chugged half. Michael took the beer when she offered it, finishing it in a few gulps. "I had a good wife, and I blew it," he said to annoy her. "You married her for pity and regretted it," Kate shot back. "I never tried hard enough. I was unfaithful; eventually she got sick of it. God knows −− she waited long enough." "She waited long enough? She stayed to absolve her own guilt." "Guilt? Liz did nothing wrong," he said, feeling color in his cheeks. Kate hissed and turned away. She ate her sandwich in silence, drinking water from one of the tall glasses. Michael unwrapped the other sandwich and stalked out to a deck chair. The cool breeze sipped the anger away. The trees swayed in the wind off the bay. Watching them, Michael felt the rhythmic calming tempo. A slither, a tendril flavored of Kate, crept onto the surface of his frustration. 114

He recognized her olive branch and extended one of his own. "Tell me about your children." Her touch retreated from his mind. "I haven't seen them since they were three months old, except in pictures. Val would be the one to ask." Michael kicked himself. Some neutral topic, he'd picked. Kate's twin would raise her children. "I didn't mean to accuse you of anything," Michael said. Kate slipped silently into the next chair. Finally she sighed and said, "Sure you did. It doesn't matter. I'm not angry. I have no maternal instinct, so inferring that I'm a poor parent stirs no shame in me." She shared her water with him. "No parental instincts. I don't see how a species can survive without it." "Ah! The arvir only tinkered with the maternal instinct, not the paternal ones." "Why one and not the other?" He felt her mental shrug. "My theory? They didn't know that human fathers relate to their children. Which suggests arvir males have no feelings toward their offspring." Michael thought about Kyle and Kim, the pride he held for each, the protective response they could invoke. Val's human wife would love Katie's children and Val would protect them. A strategy designed to continue the viraran species. Not a bad plan, just a strange one. Why did Kate dislike Liz? What had she said? He had married the competition, only engaging her in illicit affairs. A nice girl to marry, a bad girl to have fun with −− he remembered his Nanny Beiler saying that's what boys wanted. Lethargy had trickled into his muscles. Her saliva at work again −− dammit −− he thought hazily, no more sharing her drinks. Spring 1992 The man looked familiar. Michael struggled through the crowd trying to catch another glimpse. The press of people suddenly surged as the parade ended, Mickey and Minnie safe once more behind the large green gates. The Icepop Stop's glass door reflected the man's face as it opened. "Mel!" Michael shouted. The figure halted, but was poised to flee. "Mel." Michael called again. "Hi!" Mel turned, reluctantly Michael thought, but the smile was genuine. "You may not remember me..." "Michael Beiler. Yes, I remember. SolutionTech." Mel extended his hand. "It's good to see you." Mel had been the legal go−fer sent from Chicago to verify Michael's identity for the inheritance. A long−lost aunt had passed away, leaving her wealth to her sister's offspring when they were found. The windfall and Mel's additional funds had provided the start−up capital for SolutionTech, his software company. A woman, with distinctive facial scars, and a bevy of children stood a few feet away. Michael glanced at them. Mel's smile faded, noting the direction of his attention. "My wife, Kelly. Our children −− Mavis, Mara. The twins −− Harley and Savannah. My sister's kids." His daughters resembled their mother, honey−blonde and fair−skinned. The twins were darker, Polynesian looking, like a Gaugin painting. Michael politely smiled at each. The twins and Mavis were a few years older than Kyle, he guessed. Mara looked about Kim's age. The twins regarded him with amusement, exchanging a secretive look before whispering to Mavis. He caught the slight head tilt as Mel indicated the ice−cream parlor to Kelly. Without a word, she opened the door and ushered the children inside. Michael heard a giggle pass between the twins as the door closed. He attempted a few pleasantries, which fell short of bridging the distance. He'd thought they had parted on good terms. Michael realized Mel would stand with him, uncomfortable and polite, as long as he wanted. He let the quiet grow. "I'm sorry if I intruded," he finally said. 115

Mel looked up into the bright spring sun. He drew a deep breath. "No. I like to keep my personal life and business world very separate, private." He sighed. "You're right. I'm uncomfortable." "Well, they're waiting for you." Michael turned away. "Wait," Mel said. "I really am glad to see you. I'll call you, later. Oh! We have fireworks tonight. Tomorrow?" Michael said tomorrow would be fine, never expecting to hear from him. The next day had been spent bickering with Liz about the heat, the crowds, and the cost of meals. Once back at the room, she had silently dressed the kids for swimming and, without inviting him, left for the nearby pool. Michael took a beer out of the refrigerator, wincing at the price tag. T'hell with it. He wandered out to the palm−lined communal patio and slumped in one of the wrought iron chairs. The shadow of the enclosing buildings had completely engulfed the brick pavement. A hint of breeze whispered through the semi−tropical foliage, and a nearby automatic sprinkler sent a fine mist over the shaded area. The bright coral and peach colored flowers scattered through the dense greenery drew his eyes upward toward the hazy blue bits of sky visible through the variegated leaves. The sky−blue gradually deepened into an evening shade of purple. The contents long gone, Michael peeled the bits of paper labeling from the bottle, concentrating on the task as if this were the only thing left worthy of accomplishing. "Hey, sport," said a voice from the dark shadows under the breezeway that led to the parking lots. "Waiting for me?" Michael glanced up as Mel came into the subdued lighting of the patio. "Yeah, I think I was." "Let's walk. We toured the space center today, and my ass is sore from all the car−time." The rapport had been this easy the first time too. Michael had been called into Mr. Mahon's office. He'd been uneasy, wondering if the boss had heard of his talk for starting a company of his own. Instead, the boss had been kowtowing to a young well−dressed man sitting in the 'comfortable' chair. Mahon had left his own office when Mel Zurin had asked for a moment to discuss private matters with Mr. Beiler. "What a stick," Mel had said, grinning at Michael. He'd then established his bona fides, astounding Michael with the news of an aunt's −− his grandmother's aunt, really −− death. He'd known his Nanny Schaeffer had been orphaned but hadn't realized she'd come from money. Mel had asked what plans he'd make with the inheritance, and Michael told him. Mel had thought about the idea for a software company for about thirty seconds before offering matching funds. To celebrate the new venture, they'd gone out to a club. Michael had met a dancer, but that had been a different sort of venture −− one that had lasted a few months then faded. Liz had been pissed about his not calling home, but the news of the money changed her opinion. Yeah, it had been easy. Michael hooked the bottle into the nearby trashcan and joined Mel at the breezeway. They walked around the macadam path that bounded the lagoon. A bridge arched over a canal, and at the top Mel stopped and leaned on the railing. The reflection of the stars glimmered in the still water below. The fireworks started in the nearby theme park and they, too, were reflected in the lagoon. "How's business?" Mel asked quietly. Mosquitoes buzzed, but ignored both of them. "Good. I'm here to design some programming for a new exhibit." Mel whistled appreciatively. "You have arrived." "Yeah. I'm working for a guy who wears mouse ears without laughing." Mel chuckled. They talked a few minutes more about the company and expansion. "Why'd you sell?" It had bothered Michael that Mel never told him why he wanted out. "You really want to know?" Mel asked. At Michael's nod, he sighed and walked back toward the now−distant hotel. He said nothing for several minutes, picking up pebbles now and then and lobbing them into the water. "You come on like gang−busters. Then when everything is almost within your reach, you get careful. I liked the risk−taking guy I signed on with. I despised the cautious paint−by−numbers man you became." Heat rose in Michael's neck. "Hey, the company is doing just fine." "Yeah? Where is Bill Gates today?" Mel shot back. A long silence followed. "Look, I'm sorry but that's why I wanted out. You asked me, I told you. You do what you want." 116

The path split there, one branch heading toward the parking lot, the other toward the patio. They stopped; this is where they would part also. "I had to think of my family," Michael mumbled as some sort of excuse. He knew it for a lame one, and wished he hadn't said anything. Mel sighed. "Tell ya what, sport. You lose this company because you took a risk −− a big one −− and I'll guarantee money for another." Michael laughed. "Yeah, sure. Wanna sign a contract?" "My word is good and you know it. You take the risk and I'll be at your door ahead of your creditors. Promise." Mel pulled his wallet out, and found a card. "Here. A message called to this number will always reach me or Kate." "Kate?" Michael echoed, taking the card. Mel gave him a searching look. "My sister." He paused a moment, seemingly waiting for Michael to comment. Finally he said, "Well, time to go. Kel will wonder if you and I have something going on. See ya." "Bye." Michael remembered Mel's strange sense of humor. He watched until a corner in the foliage−lined path hid Mel from his sight. Spring 2003 The business card had migrated from that wallet to each new replacement for all the interim years. The same card he'd found when he wanted to call Katie. "Did you clear your conscience with that money?" he said aloud. Kate shook her a little. "It wasn't my money." "Sure. Val just wanted to help me out." Michael said before remembering that his sister, mother and aunt had also received similar sums at the same time. "Expensive, but I guess that wouldn't matter to the Zurins." "It matters very much. Money is like love." He snorted at her comparison. Kate glanced her Katie−look. "Neither grows unless shared." She had wandered to the steps and stretched her legs on the railing. "Going for a run?" He asked, knowing the answer. She always ran or danced when she got angry. "Thinking about it." "Let's take a walk, instead. Unless you'd rather be alone." Her expression had a bruised look when she glanced at him. "I never want to be alone. You just always leave me." Tears formed and dried. "Why?" Katie knew why, but she wouldn't tell him, he realized. "Never mind. Come on. I'm not going anywhere just yet. You have the car keys." He smiled, sending a mental kiss to her. She sighed, not mollified, but happier. Kate extended her hand and he scrambled to join her. The path to the bay had been improved with landscaping and manicured grassy picnic spots. "I've been trying to remember how Anne and I met. Why can't I remember these past four years? Or the affairs we had before?" The path forked ahead. Kate stopped at the junction. "Wait here." She climbed the few back−filled steps to the higher path, and walked a few dozen yards to a crook in the trail. "Follow that way until the paths rejoin." A few more steps took her from his sight. His path was straighter, and when the trails met, he looked back the way she should come. "Kate?" She stepped into view and strolled down to meet him. They continued toward the water's edge. "I know you thought that would mean something to me, but I don't get the message." She looked back the way they'd come. "I really can't explain in words. You could see me for a while, then couldn't. Then you went on ahead and looked back. You couldn't see me until I came around the corner. Your memory is acting the same way. At some point, the trails will meet and you'll see the whole picture." "There will be parts I never remember, won't there?" She shrugged. "Honestly, I don't know. I never thought it would go this far. You haven't done what you usually do." "Run away?" She nodded. 117

He picked some bark from the tree beside him, chucking the pieces into the darkening bay. "Do I run because of something I did or you did? Was it Val? Or just you being a viraran?" he mused aloud. She leaned against a nearby rock. "Something I said. Something you are. Something Val did." "Now that makes things as clear as mud," he said, laughing. She was clever and funny. Although he'd begun to see why their initial relationship had soured, he also understood why he loved her. "Which of those can you explain to me?" She crossed her arms and turned her face toward the sailboat tacking across the inlet. "None. Or all." "But you won't?" He perched next to her. Katie leaned against him, and he found it natural to embrace her. "You could stop trying to remember. We could recapture what we lost then." "Your secrets would lie between us," Michael said softly into her ear. The tiny hairs stood on end as he breathed across her neck. "The secrets of Katie Zurin." "Not my secrets, yours." She raised her hand to stroke his cheek. "My secrets?" "I would scream them to the world. You hide them in your subconscious. There you've hidden the things I don't know." "Such as?" He drew his hand up her side, pausing to cup her breast. She shifted, pressing against his hand. Willing, always willing to accept his touch. Kate buried her face in his neck, nuzzling under his chin. Michael pulled her around until her shoulders were in his lap. Softly stroking, he found all the places that made her quiver. "Please, more." Katie's eyes opened when Michael's hands stopped in mid−action. "Such as?" He could feel the cool touch in the base of his brain as she figured out the scenario. "You son−of−a−bitch." Michael raised his hands from her body. "You won't tell me what you do know. Tell me what you don't know." She shook her head. "Fine. No answers, no sex." Katie sat up and crossed her arms over her breasts, hugging herself. "Fine by me." Michael ran a single finger down her bare shoulder. "I don't think so. I don't think you can be near me without needing me. A pheromone thing." Kate's breathing came in little pants. "So, just tell me what you don't know." He kissed her bowed neck, raising the fine hairs. When she spoke in a rushed little whisper, he knew he'd won. "I don't know why you fear me. I don't know why I love you. I don't really know what happened in Amsterdam. One minute everything was terrific, and the next you'd caught the first plane back to the States." Michael cuddled her. Kate resisted a fraction of a second before relaxing. "Was that so bad?" She started an answer, and then settled for a shrug. "What?" She shook her head. "What?" Michael kissed her shoulder. "What were you going to say?" Katie glanced at him, her lips pursed in annoyance. "Unlike you, I'm careful not to speak the first thing that pops into my head." "Maybe you should. We could cut through all the mystical crap you've draped on us, and I could figure out what's really going on." Kate gave him one very sharp glance. She shrugged out of his embrace and stood. "You are an asshole. You are a shallow, self−serving bastard. I don't like you very much but, as you so gallantly pointed out, I do have the misfortune of being bonded to you. Believe me, if I could just walk away, I would do so in a heartbeat." Kate strode to the path. She turned to deliver one last pronouncement. "You are a miser. You hoard your feelings like a dragon's treasure. Have you ever really loved anyone but yourself?" Michael said, "I loved Liz." He'd meant to goad her into more admissions, but instead she recaptured her 118

composure to a degree. Kate laughed. "No. You married her to piss me off." "You think?" "Yeah, I think." She settled her eyes on his a long moment. "Only you know for sure, but you're far too much the coward to examine those memories." She turned and raced up the path. When Michael returned to the room she and the car were gone, but her luggage sat where he'd left it. She'd be back. Dinner arrived, room service, and the young man set the table next to the window with candles and crystal. A bottle of wine rested in a sterling wine basket, and another chilled in the refrigerator. Michael tipped the waiter, ate some bread, and then finished his meal. The wine slipped smoothly down his throat without any of the side affects of viraran venom −− just the influence of good grapes. Michael sat on the deck, the only light coming from the twin flames of the table candles. He finished the open bottle of wine in the hour or so since he'd stopped waiting for Kate. The harder he pushed against the barrier the firmer the wall became. Free association seemed to work better. If Katie was telling the truth that he hadn't loved Liz, then why had he married her? He remembered something else. Katie wouldn't have objected if he'd married anyone but Liz. How did he know that? There had been another option. Nicole. Early Spring 1980 Michael was accustomed to Val's unannounced visits. He'd shown up this time with a petite brunette. Tiny, but built with all the right parts in all the right sizes. "Hi!" Michael said as they burst through the door. He had his guitar out, trying to piece together a song to amuse Casey. Val pointed the woman down the hall. "That−a−way, Nickel." The woman waved as she dashed down the hall to the bathroom, "I'll be right out." Val dropped a couple of bags on the floor. "I brought company. Where's Casey?" "Away, supposed to be back tonight," Michael said, setting aside the instrument. The woman sauntered back into the living room. "Hi. Sorry about that. This shithead wouldn't stop at a gas station." "I stopped. You were asleep. How am I supposed to know you needed to piss?" The woman ignored Val. She smiled and extended her hand. "I'm Nicole MacKenzie." "Jill's sister?" Michael asked, getting up to shake the delicate hand. He thought of the tall and statuesque Jill, and tried to find a family resemblance in this little sprite. "Don't look too hard, there is no comparison," she said. "She's the beauty, I'm the brain." "Hell, Nickel. You're cute, too." She glared at Val. "Cute is for puppies and children." Cute was the wrong word, Michael thought. Not pretty either. She was eye−catching in a dainty but energetic way. Medium−brown hair streaked with blond highlights caught up in a tangled ponytail −− Val liked to drive with the top down on his candy−apple red convertible. Bright green eyes, with sooty lashes, topped a face both agreeable and intelligent. "So do I pass?" Nicole asked, when Michael's perusal lasted too long. "Sorry, I was thinking that you're not cute." "Oh? This gets better and better. To think I let you drag me all the way out here for this guy to tell me I'm ugly." Nicole pulled her hand from his, and huffed. "That's not..." Michael started to apologize but saw the grin on her face. "I know. I'm kidding. Four hours of him," she hitched her chin toward Val, who had come out of the kitchen with a pair of beers, "Makes me punchy. I'm also very shy, so keep the worshipful staring to an absolute minimum, please." Val snickered, handing the beer to Nicole. She took a couple big swallows, and then, belatedly, stifled a burp. "Lady−like, babe," Val said, grinning. 119

"Neither's beer, but here I am chugging one," she said, finishing the contents before Val did more than sip his. "Another?" Michael offered. "Nah, food first. What's to eat?" Val tossed his keys to Michael. "Chinese. Pepper steak with veggies, or Szechwan Chicken. Two egg rolls and snot−soup." Snot−soup, or egg−drop soup was Val's standing preference. "Wallet's in the dash. Get lots. Leftovers." "How 'bout you?" Michael asked the girl. "Go with him, Nickel," Val suggested. "I'm going to shower, and don't want you bothering me." "As if," Nicole said, with exaggerated indignation. "In your dreams." "And yours," Val said, shooting a knowing sideways glance at Michael. Nicole blushed. "Just go. I need a break," he said in a quiet voice. She nodded, and looked at Michael expectantly. "Let's boogie, babe." The restaurant was packed. "We should've called ahead," Michael said by way of apology. Nicole shook her head. "Nah, don't sweat it. Tad needed time." "Why?" She shrugged. "He'll never say. I think something's up in his other life." "Other life?" She glanced at him in disbelief. "The one he has when he's not with us?" "With his wife? Did she have her baby?" Michael asked. Nicole looked surprised. "That jerk never told me that he knocked her up. Figures, though." "Figures?" "He needs a place for Katie's children. Most pregnant women will choose marriage if offered." "So he married her cuz she's pregnant?" Nicole shook her head. "No, he'd marry her because he loves her. She's pregnant because he wants kids." "Lucky timing, then." "Luck, nothing. They can smell it." "Smell it?" "Fertility, that's how they know Katie's ready. Val can smell the difference." Michael made a face and a noise of disgust. "You think we humans are so different? Our clues are mostly visual now, but it wasn't always that way." "Visual?" "Yeah. Humans signal mating readiness by eye contact and certain mannerisms." "You sound like an anthropologist." Michael smirked. "Good guess." "You are?" "Yep, teach it... Or, rather, taught it −− at Millvale Prep. I'm between jobs, as they say." She pulled a package of bubble−gum from her jacket pocket. Nicole offered a piece to him, unwrapping it herself when he refused. "You aren't old enough." Michael guessed her age at nineteen or twenty tops, then remembered Jill's real age. The thought showed. "You wear everything you think on your face. Didja know that? I'm your age, give or take. I was an accelerated student. Skipped a couple grades, graduated college at nineteen. Got my master's at twenty−one. Participated in a dig in Israel for a while, then went for my teaching certificate." She laughed at his expression. "Told ya. I'm the brain." He laughed. "Why'd you leave Millvale? Good school." She crinkled her nose. Okay, maybe cute did describe her. "I didn't care for the atmosphere. Especially after I filed a harassment suit against the dean of academic affairs." She pronounced affairs with a funny little leer. She blew a big bubble and sucked it back in. "Oh." "Married, kids my age, twenty−five years older than me. Balding with a bad comb−over, paunchy, and has false teeth. To make it worse, he's got no more smarts than half a deck of cards. God, did he honestly 120

think I'd have anything to do with him?" "Probably just hoping. Can't blame a guy for trying," Michael said, joking. Deck of cards? Oh. Not playing with a full deck. She was quick. "I can if he locks me in my office, and tries the forceful Me−Big−Boss−You−Untenured−Peon approach." "Asshole." "Yeah, and I tore him a spare one, too." They exchanged a grin. "So, why are you the one between jobs?" She gave him a roll of her eyes. "Same old, same old. They didn't believe me. Or pretended not to." Nicole shook her head, causing the tangled ponytail to bob and spill more hair free. "I left, promising to cause trouble if I'm given a bad reference. There are other jobs, other schools." She lifted her hands to her hair, which did interesting things to her anatomy. "God, I'm a mess. Aren't I?" "Nah. You look cute," he teased. She roared with laughter. The quiet diners turned to stare at the crazy woman. Their stares caused her to laugh harder, but more quietly. "You're as bad as Tad." Their order was ready a few minutes later. Nicole said, "Probably trying to get rid of us quicker." "More quickly." "Yeah, that too." When they pulled into the apartment's parking lot, Michael noticed Casey's Jeep was gone. So was Val. A short note explained. Kids, Katie stuck in Pittsburgh. Be back soon. Don't eat my soup. Look in the flour canister. Me "How far's Pittsburgh?" Nicole asked. "Two and a half or three hours, usually." "With Tad driving?" "Hour and forty−five minutes." They both laughed. "Poor guy, and he needed a rest," Michael said. Nicole wrinkled her nose again. "He likes to drive, and he's alone. So it is a break, and then he'll have Katie all to himself for a while. Betcha that takes longer... Getting back." She had been unloading the food onto the table and caught the tail end of Michael's expression. Her face lost its glow of humor, and the green eyes mirrored her concern. "That bothers you." He shrugged and grabbed Val's food to refrigerate it. Nicole gripped his arm firmly, but gently. "They can't help the attraction, a force of nature. Can you argue with a hurricane, Mike?" "That's supposed to make me feel better? I've felt the draw with them, when they want me in the loop." Nicole's eyes lit up. "You can do that? Wow." "Makes being left out so much worse. Sometimes I can't, or they won't." They continued the preparations in silence until the food was served and Michael grabbed some beer from the fridge. "If it's any help, I can tell you that adult viraran begin to separate from their twins after the female's first children are born. They stay close, but not like now." "How do you know? They won't answer questions," Michael said, disgustedly. "Sure they will. You just gotta ask the right questions of the right viraran," Nicole said, smoothly. "Who? Lucien?" Nicole smiled. "Not him. Though if you wanted to study medicine, he'd be the one to ask. Nah, I asked Janessa." 121

Michael's mouth hung open. "Very attractive." She tapped his chin with her fork. "The half−chewed broccoli makes a nice collage." His mouth closed with a snap. "You know Janessa?" "Yeah. She's an archeologist. Lucien asked her if I could tag along on one of her digs. She said yes." Nicole shrugged. "What good are connections if you don't call in markers now and then?" Michael ate in silence for a few minutes. Though concentrating on his plate, he felt Nicole's glances. "You want to know what she's like?" Nicole asked with a sly smile. Michael nodded, wondering aloud if she'd read his mind. "Nah, your face. You are no good at cards, I'd bet." "Get me a paper bag to wear on my head. That's too weird." She laughed, and ran her palm down his cheek. "Too adorable to hide." She froze, and drew her hand back to grab her empty bottle. "I need another. You?" He nodded. The touch of her hand was still on his cheek. She returned with two beers and tossed something on the table. "Look what I found in the flour canister." Val's stash. Michael and Nicole exchanged a what−the−hell−do−we−do−now look, and then simultaneously shrugged. Nicole filled the pipe and Michael cleared the plates. "I always get the munchies after this stuff," Michael said. Nicole smiled. "I always get hungry again about an hour after Chinese. This could get ugly. Dibs on the snot−soup." Michael grinned and lit the pipe for her. She pulled in a deep breath and, holding it, pointed to the living room. She passed the pipe, and grabbed her beer and the baggie. After the first hit, Michael felt the heady feeling. "Damn, I wonder where he gets this shit." Nicole let out her breath, slowly. "It's not where he gets it. It's what he does to it." "Huh?" Michael toed off his sneakers. Nicole gave him an impatient look. "Venom?" She nodded. She plopped onto the sofa next to him and kicked off her leather clogs. "Better living through modern chemistry. Means something new now, huh?" He chuckled and nodded. Where were they? Oh. "Janessa?" "Janessa. Yeah." She paused to sip her beer. "That was a strange year." "I saw Val's pictures of her." Nicole had just taken a hit. Her eyes got big, and she looked a question at him. "Really hot. Like −− masterpieces, though. Not Playboy." She pointed to herself with a raised eyebrow. His imagination kicked in momentarily. "You? No, I don't think so." He would have remembered. She drew a hand across her brow wiping away imaginary sweat. Her cheeks blazed. "How'd he talk ya into it? Since you're so shy, and all." She giggled. "A couple hits, a beer or two, and..." She stopped suddenly, and the fading blush returned. "You know how persuasive he can be." "Yeah, I was there when he got Linda to pose." "Mark loved them," she said. "Mostly." Michael remembered Mark's mixed reaction to Val's offer to take the pictures. He took a hit, and handed Nicole her beer as a fit of coughing overcame her. "I saw the ones of Jill and Demi though," he said, smiling at her reaction as he took a turn on the pipe. Nicole coughed again, and then put her hand a foot from her groin. "Those ones?" she asked. He nodded. "What'd ya think?" Michael positioned her hand a little further out. She giggled. Yeah, cute. "Of course, you now know everything about Jill." She pulled the front of her shirt to mimic her sister's size. "All her, and all real. I feel like a boy next to her." He laughed, though she was anything but. "Every guy I ever brought home took one look at Jill, drooled, and forgot about me." She sighed, and then 122

refilled the pipe after Michael knocked the ashes away. "We were talking about Janessa." "I was... You were drooling over her and Jill's pictures." She laughed at his stern expression. "Okay. Janessa." Nicole paused to light the pipe. "She's smart, sweet, and very sexy. Like Tad. Katie must be more like her father." She put up a hand to forestall his question. "No, I never met their pop. Knowing four viraran is more than enough." A troubled look entered her eyes. "Every once in a while though..." she trailed off. Space had claimed another victim, he thought. Her ponytail had fallen loose, the clip hanging crookedly. He unclasped it, and tossed the barrette onto the coffee table. She ran her hands through the twisted stands in an absent−minded attempt to straighten the tangles. "Every once in a while?" Michael prompted, remembering the conversation in progress. "Oh." She looked at him peculiarly. "In airports, or crowds. I'll feel that crawly−skin thing or smell something nice, and catch a glimpse of a stranger looking at me. Like they know who I am. You know what I mean?" "Never happen..." Michael started and stopped. "What?" she asked. "I don't want to think about it. Forget it. Okay?" His vehemence startled her. "Sorry, bad memory. Same thing −− dark alley." She shivered. "Oooo!" They took a couple hits. Nicole spotted his guitar and cradled it gently. She strummed a few times, and adjusted the tuning. Michael grimaced, wishing he'd done it earlier before Val showed up. She picked out a tune, something vaguely Spanish sounding. He watched her play, her fingers stretching for the more difficult chords. Her nails were sensibly short and unpolished. "Why am I not surprised that you can play?" "There are a lot of good things about being a hybrid, Mick." She smiled. "Not the least of which is talent." She hit a sour note, and laughed. "Or the vestiges of one, anyway." She handed the guitar to him. "Beer?" she offered, and went to the kitchen. He played the little tune he'd been working on earlier until she returned. "Pretty," she commented. "Especially now that the poor thing is in tune." She grinned and sipped her beer. "You should hear my sister. Laura's good." "Guitar?" Nicole asked. Michael nodded. "Anything musical. She could pick up bag−pipes and make them sing." "Where'd she study?" "Nowhere. My father vetoed a musical career for her. She's at Ridgeway Tech getting an associates in medical transcription." He shook his head at the shortsighted pig−headedness of his father's opinions. "What a waste," Nicole said. She sunk in beside him and relit the pipe. "Janessa, weird year," he reminded her. She shrugged. "She's good at finding old things. She showed me stuff about researching sites, taught me about viraran ancient history and let me tag along. A lot of fun..." Nicole broke off. "Nothing much else to say." Michael figured out why Nicole had suddenly stopped wanting to talk about her time with Janessa. As if she'd just remembered something she'd totally forgotten. "How was the exchange rate?" "What?" "Blood? Sex?" She blushed to the roots of her hair. "Pretty high, I'd say." She nodded. "I'm as straight as they come, but for most of a year −− I wasn't." Nicole picked up the remote and clicked on the TV. She switched channels a few times, pausing to check the programming. She hit the blue channel at a particularly appropriate moment −− a bit of graphic lesbian behavior, and hastily changed the channel. "Tad's idea, right?" she said after a few moments of embarrassed silence. "He likes porn." 123

"He also likes those old B−movies," Michael said, changing the topic. "God knows why." She snickered. "The cornier, the better." "He says they're more honest." She paused a minute, thinking carefully. "Maybe, that's it. What could be more honest than down and dirty porn?" "Nah..." they said together, and laughed. Michael looked down at her just as she looked up to say something else. Very slowly, he let himself kiss her. Her lips were slightly chapped, a little rough and very human−flavored against his. She smelled a little like beer and Chinese food, and a lot like pot. Something else tickled his nose, just a hint of lemon scent. Was that how she smelled to Val or Casey? Like lemonade? Her hand stroked his neck, not too warm. Just like his. The tank top she wore, instead of a bra, slid readily with a tug. There and there, her breasts were rounder and more yielding to his fingers. Her skin felt less velvety than Casey's, but nice. She felt so small in his arms; he could reach every part of her. Her almost inaudible yips coincided with the strumming of his fingers on her nipples. Little yes−yes−yes's accompanied the stroking between her thighs. Clothing became unbearable. He remembered thinking how easy it would be to go too far, when suddenly it had. His own rough groan alerted him to how far the petting had gone. The next thought was of the perfection of her slippery tightness around his cock and the human−woman scent of her excitement in his nostrils. On the heels of that notion came the realization of how much too late rational thought had returned. One more thrust and Nicole cried out her climax, which hastened his own in the next. Her head tilted back and he kissed her neck, missing the feeling of Casey's teeth in his own. Her green eyes met his blue ones with a look of startled recognition. Michael wondered if she, too, had anticipated teeth, and only in their absence remembered who was riding her. Nicole cried out, from the rightness of it and from the wrongness. Pushing him away, she ran toward the bathroom. When she returned, white−faced and quiet, Michael apologized but she shook her head. "Not your fault. We were set up." Nicole spoke as if a great revelation had occurred to her during her moments of private recriminations. "Set up?" "Remember this. Katie always has a plan. It won't be complicated, but there will always be a plan, and a contingency plan. She can't do complex, but she makes up for it by always having another." "Casey wanted us to −− be together?" He substituted one word for another. "Yes. Tad's pot, leaving us alone. Convenient that she called while we were out. Don't you think?" She wiped her nose, adjusted her shirt, and yanked on her jeans. He stood, looking out the patio door, glancing at her reflection from time to time. Nicole picked up the remote and clicked off the television. "Why?" "Good question. I'm pretty certain it has to do with you. Until last month, I hadn't seen either of them for years." A flicker of a concern occurred to him. "Are you on the pill?" She shook her head. "I didn't use a condom." She exploded. "Son−of−a−bitch. This IS for you! And them!" Nicole threw the remote, shattering it against the bookshelf. She glared at him. "Did you know about this? No. You can't keep anything a secret with that face of yours." "For me?" he asked. Nicole looked at him, shaking her head. "You're not happy. You want normal. We could have something pretty close. We're comfortable together. I'd say there's a definite chemistry." She choked out a slightly hysterical laugh. "You and I −− marriage, home, careers, kids, pets −− with an occasional dose of them." Michael stared at her. Casey planned this? "There's no guarantee you'll get pregnant from this," he argued, not wanting to believe her theory. She shot him another impatient look. "I'm as fertile as I can be. The twins timed me to the hour −− I have no doubt. Not a complicated plan, but an effective one." "Had we not figured it out, anyway," Michael said. "Too late." She shook her head. "What does it matter if we figured it out? Your wee sperm−beasties are 124

swimming their tails off toward the viraran's goal." She laughed and looked him straight in the eyes for the first time since coming out of the bathroom. "What will happen if, in a couple of months, I tell you I'm pregnant? Cuz, I won't abort. Would you let me disappear with your kid? They're pretty sure you wouldn't. Betting on it, in fact." Spring 2003 Michael stumbled into bed. He remembered Val's smirk when he and Casey came in. Casey had been her usual affectionate self, hugging Nicole like a long lost sister. Feeding as if she hadn't in days. Had Nicole gotten pregnant that night? If so, why hadn't he married her? Because the viraran had been right in one thing −− he would have. A gray−silver predawn glow filled the room with light shadows and deep wells of darkness. Michael felt Katie's kisses on his stomach, and the gentle raking of her nails, encouraging his morning erection. Maybe pheromones had a hold over him too, but no one had ever aroused him so consistently. She always knew what he wanted, knew which buttons to push, the right pressure, timing and the host of other sensations that satisfied him. Each time was similar in that respect but forever new in every other. "I thought you don't like me," he teased, lifting her hair from her face as she sipped from the glass of water on the bedside stand. She snuggled down under the comforter. "I don't," she murmured, sleepily. "Not in the least." "You still think I'm an inconsiderate, self−centered bastard?" "Self−serving." She placed her fingers over his mouth. "Yes, you are. Shut up, Michael." She rolled over and buried her face into her pillow. He rubbed the small of her back, then spooned around her cozy curves and valleys. "Why did you come back?" he whispered into the growing grayness. She grumbled, almost asleep. "Tell me why you keep coming back, if I'm such an asshole." He licked her earlobe, and blew softly across the dampness. Her skin goose−bumped instantly. Her brown eyes flickered open to stare through the windows overlooking the bay. The colors had seeped back into the world, and the sky outside showed signs of dawn's fire. Several times her lips parted, before closing firmly again. Finally she rolled over to look at him. "You may be the biggest one I've ever met, but you're mine. I'd sooner die than never be with you again." She kissed him and he recognized the technique. A proper kiss goodnight, the one forestalling his questions and ending a conversation. "One more thing," he said, smiling at her theatrical sigh of exasperation. "Did Nicole have my baby?" The play of emotions on her face confused him. His question seemed easy enough. What little pieces did she weigh in her answer? She snuggled down onto his chest, and settled for a simple, "No." Her breathing told him she was asleep only moments afterward. Michael wondered what else she had been tempted to say, and hadn't. Listening to the low hum of an airplane and the chirps of awakening birds, he fell back into a thready dream−filled sleep. Spring Break 1980 Michael had never flown before. The plane seemed inadequate to the task of crossing the ocean. Val laughed at him and tried to set his mind at ease. "This is nothing. Planes are better than ships." "Hmmm." Michael's stomach muscles were all that kept the huge thing in the air. "Come on." Val said, unbuckling the seatbelt and standing to stretch. Michael glanced at Casey, who had fallen asleep as soon as the hatch had been closed. "She'll sleep the entire way. She always does." Val beckoned, and climbed the stairs to the first class lounge. The lounge had comfortable sofas and soft music playing. "Not bad," Michael commented. 125

"Be glad we don't fly coach. That's barbaric." Val offered a tall glass of beer and settled on one of the couches. Michael sat across from him, held his breath as Val dug in his jacket pocket and almost laughed when Val pulled out a travel chess set. "Thought I'd have something else?" Val asked. "Nah, I wouldn't dare bring pot through French customs." He set up the board on the small table between them. "Don't fret, I can always score on either side of the pond." "Score what?" Michael took a stab at innuendo. Val looked at him, smiling. "Whatever you're looking for, sport." The click of heels on the stairs announced a couple entering the lounge. The female half of the pair glanced around the area, accessed Michael then Val. Her companion headed straight for the bar, while she choose seats within their line of sight. The spectacle of her legs, the length and shape of them, and the expanse of thigh exposed as she crossed them diverted Michael's attention from the game. Val swore softly after a particularly bad move, and looked over in exasperation at his opponent. "I've never seen you play so badly." Michael hitched his head toward the woman, who was now laughing at some comment from her escort. "You've been distracted by less." Val glanced over, nodded, and then looked again. His attention settled back on to the board. "Would it help to know she's a he?" Michael stared at Val a moment before returning his interest to the person he'd been noticing. Long legs, nicely shaped, dark hair arranged in some arcane design, perfectly applied make−up, and stunning figure. "You're shitting me," he whispered. Val's little smile could have meant yes or no. "I shit you not. That's a guy in drag." Michael continued to be distracted if for an additional reason, trying to identify any maleness and failing. Val checkmated him, easily. "Nuh−huh." "Yep." Val said. "Another game? Set it up." He went to refill their glasses. Michael rearranged the pieces, completely unable to stop his eyes from wandering. The escort stood, a determined look on his face, and strode over to stand in Michael's line of sight. "May I inquire? Why do you stare at my companion so?" The tone was belligerent and insulted. Michael looked up to see Val's highly amused expression. Dammit, he'd been gotten. An evil idea occurred to him. He leaned back and said in an affected voice. "My friend likes her dress. I was trying to picture him in it." Val subdued the hilarity which suddenly appeared on his face, as the man turned to look at him. "Do you mind telling me where she bought it?" Val said, lightly, striking a pose. "Will they carry it in my size?" As it turned out, the dress came from a Parisian house of haute couture, and could probably be ordered to fit. The couple showed no indignation, and only polite curiosity at the inquiry. Val and Michael finished the beers and the second game before returning to the main cabin. Michael regained his assigned seat, and swore under his breath. From the opposite side of the aisle, Val laughed. "Good save, sport." "Goddammit Val, why'd you tell me that?" The smile got a little bigger. "You asked." Michael glared, but Val' expression never varied. "Jesus. Damned liar." He leaned back and closed his eyes. He felt rather than heard Val stand back up, so the whispered comment close to his ear came as no surprise. "Just cuz you don't like it doesn't make it less true." Michael kept his eyes closed. "If you can't deal with reality, too fucking bad for you." Minutes later, Michael heard Val chatting up the attendant. He didn't need to open his eyes to know what he'd see. The viraran would be standing far too close to the attractive woman, murmuring something in her ear. 126

Then he'd nuzzle her neck and take trespass, which would show in his lips. He'd kiss her and jolly her until the call bell interrupted the little noir soirée. At some point the imagining became a dream −− the attendant evolving into Casey, and Val into himself. Michael slept the rest of the way to Paris. Spring 2003 Michael awoke to a discrete tapping. He could hear Katie humming in the shower. Checking the blankets, he called out, "Yes?" An older man opened the door. "Breakfast, Mr. Beiler." Ignoring the occupied bed, the waiter saved his attention for the dinner tableware, which he stowed away on the lower shelves of his trolley. He unloaded several chafing dishes on the sideboard, and set the table for breakfast. After a quick glance at his set−up, the man rolled the cart out through the door, returning to leave a small square of paper on the mantle. He left, quietly closing the door. Katie stepped out of the bathroom rubbing a towel through her hair. She sniffed appreciatively. She wore nothing, but tossed the towel on the tiles and slipped into one of the inn's big terry robes. "Ooo, good. Breakfast." She lifted the lids, announcing the contents of each. She grinned at Michael, where he reclined in bed. "French toast." Michael eyed her slender figure. "There is no way you were Becky." She raised one eyebrow. "Why not?" A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. Becky. Bouncy Becky, he'd called her in bed. She'd walked into the hotel lobby where he sat waiting for a client. The client hadn't shown and neither had Becky's date. The ensuing conversation had been the start of a fierce if extremely short−lived affair. "She was... Uh. Plump." "She was also five months pregnant. I get pretty full−figured then." Michael's disbelief showed. "Your first words to me were, 'Sorry, honey. The traffic sucks.'" Those had been the words he'd said to dissuade the persistent masher in the hotel lounge. The drunk had backed down quickly but hovered, so Michael had sat down beside her to continue the charade of a relationship. Which became a real one shortly after dinner. So, she had been Becky too −− a ditzy moppet−topped blonde, who giggled during sex and snapped her gum when conversing. Not that conversation had anything to with their whirlwind relationship. Katie could still eat and talk at the same time. Her candid answers reminded him that she'd always had a debater's quick wit. Discussing Bene−gene business with her felt strange, but the oddness slipped away and the exchange became animated as each of them found their old natural stride. Michael watched Katie gesture between bites, and a cold certainty bubbled up inside him. They had been good together. Whatever had come between them hadn't sprung from indifference. Katie gradually noticed his quiet and her words tapered off. "Nicole ended us, didn't she?" he said, finally. Kate shrugged. "The Nicole incident started the process. Paris sent you back to campus, but we were still together." "What about Paris?" he asked, expecting no answer. Katie looked down at her plate, and pushed the remaining pieces of food around. "You found out why I went to Paris." "Something about Miranda... Right?" He had vague recollections of the girl almost−woman. "No. Val went because of her. I went to Paris to mate." Oh. Oh! This memory flooded in, as if a water balloon had exploded. He had no chance to duck the incoming burst. His hold on the moment fled and he was stuck in Paris... Just the same as he had been in 1980. Spring Break 1980 The Zurin compound consisted of a tiny block of city homes on a quiet side street off the Rue des 127

Mensonges. The homes faced a small ribbon of park with manicured grass and gravel pathways. Only the facades of the buildings had been left intact. The interiors had been razed and rebuilt into a modern home, abet one rife with antiques and perfectly reproduced replicas of period furniture. Michael learned that the family had purchased the block of tall narrow houses following the Second World War, but his questions regarding where they had lived prior to that time produced only silence or a change of subject. The set−up was similar to efficiency apartments. Each had a central room with several bedrooms attached. The central area consisted of a seating grouping, an open office, and a kitchenette. The lower floors were where the large formal gatherings took place. Michael deduced that such conventions were rare among the viraran, but the rooms were available for entertaining human guests and business needs. To him, the place felt like a posh hotel rather than a home. Michael met Miranda the second day. He'd stepped out of the shower to be confronted by the appraising eyes of a young teen−age girl. "Whoa," he barked, grabbing the shower curtain as a shield. "Hey, what's up?" With a charmingly accented whisper, she said, "You were, monsieur. At least for a moment." Yeah, well, hot showers had that effect on him. She stepped closer and reached toward the curtain. Michael yelled, "Val? Casey?" "Are you t'arvir? Do you offer?" A little tug of war began as she tried to open the curtain and he struggled to hold it closed. "Chéri?" Val stood in the doorway, his face almost serious, arms crossed on his chest. The girl stopped her efforts and glanced up at the viraran. "Was the door closed, Miranda?" he demanded. A blush crept into the delicately freckled cheeks. A little nod of her head swept her auburn curls to cover her face. "Oui," she whispered. "Une porte fermée est?" Val asked, sternly. "Une porte verrouillée," Miranda said with a half−sob. "Good, you remember. Come here." Val opened his arms, and she dashed into them for a hug. "A closed door is a locked door. Do not forget again." He cuddled the girl, and then gently pushed her through the door. He opened his mouth, but shook his head instead. "I'll explain. Later." Val pulled the door closed behind him. Val and Miranda were playing some sort of card and dice game when Michael came out of the bedroom he shared with Casey. "Bonjour, Michael," the girl said. "Hi, Miranda," he said, seeing in Val's face and feeling in the quick send the request for a low−key acceptance. As she returned to the game, Michael caught Val's eye, and then motioned at his wrist looking a question. "No. Miranda is too young to feed outside her family." The girl looked up. "Mais..." Val shook his head. "What you have done and what you should do are two separate issues, chéri." Michael looked at Val to be sure some doppelganger hadn't taken his place. Val felt the question. "Later." He continued to play the game with viraran child. Michael watched the complicated game for a round or two. Casey wandered in from the corridor, calling a goodbye to someone. "Bonjour everyone," Casey said, giving kisses to each man. She brushed back Miranda's hair and smiled ruefully. "You have been causing trouble, ma petite," she whispered almost too softly for Michael to hear. "What will we do with you?" "Lexi says I will learn," Miranda answered. She looked at Val with a happy smile. "Vraiment?" Casey appeared startled. "Lexi says?" she asked, giving Val a displeased glance. 128

"Oui," Val said with a shrug. "You've made this our problem?" Casey asked, her unhappiness deepening to anger. Val stood. "No. Not our problem. My problem. Mine. Who better?" he said, reaching out to caress Casey's face. She pulled from his touch. "Problem?" Michael asked. Both glanced toward him, then back to each other. "Later," they snapped simultaneously. Michael felt the furious flow of send between them. Casey's fingers wrapped around Val's wrist, and she examined the skin there with fierce intent. "You fed her?" Casey said, disbelief putting a plaintive cry in her voice. Val shrugged and wouldn't meet her eyes. Miranda looked up for the first time. "I was hungry, Anya. Très affamé. I haven't fed since I was brought here." She reached out and traced a path down Casey's arm with a fingertip. Casey looked down at the girl kneeling on the floor, and then to her brother. "You have other priorities, now. This will make no difference, ma petite," Val whispered. Again he reached out to her, and this time she allowed a brief touch. Suddenly she whirled away and fled, leaving the door ajar behind her. Val and Michael stared after her. "An open door is an invitation, sport. One of us should go after her. Better if you follow. She's truly pissed at me." "Pissed? Ce qui est cela?" Miranda asked, having followed the conversation with wide eyes. "Angry, fâché, chéri." Val forced a smile. "Not at you. Ne t'inquiétez pas. It will pass." He caught Michael's eye and whispered, "I hope." Michael didn't find Casey on the third floor but as he started down the staircase to the second floor, he heard her voice. "Now, Everard. I must leave..." Her sentence cut off with the click of a closing door. He turned down the corridor, but faced with a half−dozen choices he had no way of knowing into which room she had disappeared. The last door opened and Michael turned, hopefully, expecting Casey to have felt him searching for her. The woman who stepped out resembled Casey only in the very universal way of one viraran to the next. He had never realized how much variation could be found in the general category of beautiful. In the few hours since they had arrived in Paris, he had seen seven or eight of the family, and maybe a score of those he took for hybrids. Casey and Val had completely ignored the first, and had acknowledged the crossbreeds with the averted glance of casual interest. Michael wondered if they could identify them by their smell. Neither Casey nor Val had introduced him to anyone except the housekeeper, Octavia. She had reminded him of Mr. Charles in her complete aplomb and decorum. In her softly accented tones, the gray−haired, steely eyed matron had informed them of menus, dining times, and nearby restaurants and attractions. She had demonstrated the use of the intercom system and had opened the door to the balcony, ignoring Val's sardonic grin. Finally, after patting Val's cheek, and smiling at Casey, she'd left with the admonishment that they should seek out a country inn for the holidays, and savor the real French atmosphere. This was the first viraran Michael had encountered without either Casey or Val at his side. He stepped to the side of the hallway to allow her to pass. Her dark auburn hair glowed in the oblique sunlight from the windows in the stairway. The rich gold brown of the silky dress swished slightly as she glided toward him. The bright buttons glittered with each step. The bright green of her eyes complemented the milky paleness of her skin. She slowed her pace, turning to regard him from a few feet away. "Ampèreheure! N'ayez pas peur, mon cher garçon." She looked quizzical, waiting for his response, he supposed. "I don't speak French, miss. I'm sorry." "Then you must be Michael Beiler," she said, extending a hand. He briefly considered kissing it, so regal was her bearing, but figured that maneuver was beyond his social graces and settled for a handshake and a smile. "Yes," he replied. "How did you know?" 129

She laughed. "My American grandchildren. Only they would bring someone who doesn't speak the language of the house." She tucked her hand beneath his elbow, and indicated the staircase. He recognized the request as a polite order. He would be her escort for a time. "Grandchildren?" he asked. "No way." "You are correct, not grandchildren. Great−grandchildren." Michael stopped dead to look at her again. His gasp of disbelief died in his throat as he realized she would have no reason to lie. "As I said a moment ago, my handsome boy. Do not be afraid," she said −− softly, as if she feared he would bolt if she spoke more forcefully. His breath broke free. "How long do you live?" She again drew him toward the end of the passage. "We live until we die, as will you." "I mean −− how old are you?" She smiled as he blushed. "Asking a lady her age is impolite." She held up her free hand to cut off his apology. "I am, however, no lady. I will give you a simple rule of thumb. Add eighty to ninety years per generation. The answer will be close enough." Michael did a rapid calculation and then checked his math. Four generations, 320 years? "Oh my God." They had reached the stairs, but instead of climbing or descending Casey's grandmother turned the knob on one of the long windows out into a roof garden. She had to step quite high to clear the sill, her snug skirt sliding high to reveal perfectly girlish legs to his appreciative glance. She caught the thought and smiled wickedly, looking up at him quickly from under the tangle of dark lashes. "I have a few good years left, chéri. Long enough to show you all the things I have learned." Michael had just stepped over the ledge, and sat down as the gates on the trickle of send he'd been feeling opened and she flooded his mind with erotic images. He brought up his barriers only seconds too late; the pictures remained in his head like retinal burns from a flash bulb. "Stop," he ordered. Michael opened his eyes, to find hers only a breath away. Her rich dark−cocoa scent overpowered the green smell of the garden beyond her. "Truly?" she asked, her lips brushed his. For a long moment, the decision hung in the balance. Michael forced his barriers higher, pushing her send farther away, and said in a hoarse voice. "Yes, truly." She stood upright and walked away to lean on a railing at the edge of the rooftop. She revolved languidly to face the window where he sat −− uncomfortably aware that she knew about his erection and how close a thing his decision had been. "I am Anais Zurin. This is my home, my family, and my empire. If you wish to legitimize your place in it, then you must recognize my claim on you." Michael could feel her send tingling on his spine again. She would worm her way through given enough time. He stood with a determination to withstand her and joined her at the iron fence. "You can't claim this," he said in a firm whisper. Michael grabbed her hand and held the palm against his hardness. "Or this." He placed her hand on his chest where his heart slammed out a staccato. "This is what you can claim and, if you'd prefer, I offer my wrist freely." Michael slipped her hand around his forearm, raising his wrist to her lips. Anais tightened her grip and keeping her eyes fastened on his, she fed. A moment of panic washed through him as he feared the affects of her venom, but only a tickle of the high percolated into his senses. The color of her lips amazed him. Each time was as powerful as the first, the conditioning of his response fortified by the positive reinforcement of the venom−filled kiss, which followed the bite this time as any other. With what seemed a Herculean effort, Michael broke away. "Enough." He sat on one of the little benches and rubbed the visions from his temples. "God, I wish someone would tell me the rules of engagement with you viraran." Her light laugh surprised him. "You're doing fine. The etiquette would be to offer to anyone in direct lineage of your viraran. Myself, my twin −− Conrad −− Lucien, Janessa, Alexis... But you call him Val, do you not? Your list is quite short. My daughter died and her twin gone, a renegade." "Renegade? Like...?" Michael sent a picture of his encounter with a vampire and Val's solution. 130

"Nicholas has not become outlaw, only removed himself from our affairs." Anais looked out over the rooftop gardens of the neighboring homes. "Eventually, though, he will do the unforgivable and become an impediment." "Will you order Val to track him down?" The woman sighed. "I wouldn't have to order it. Val attracts the ones who wish to die. I know he hates to feel their pain; slaying them is his only option." "They break the rules so one of you will kill them?" She shrugged. "The sport is not so easy. The fugitives will butcher the hunters if they can. A huntsman must be very careful not to become the quarry. Val learned that lesson by personal experience." Michael shook his head. "Your kind. How can you survive?" He thought of their bizarre domestic strategies and the callousness to the fate of one another. In a voice he strained to hear, Anais said, "We almost haven't." She glanced toward the house. "If the entire Zurin clan gathered, this house would be sufficient to shelter us. The other families are only slightly better off." Michael kept the automatic 'why' to himself, but felt the cool tendril of send acknowledge the question. She wandered toward him, stopping to caress a flower or pinch away a dying leaf. Finally she sat beside him, leaned against him, and sighed. She stroked the back of his hand while gazing at the part of the Parisian skyline visible. Michael reversed his hand to hold hers, warm and soft. "Why?" he asked again. "Your wars, your religions, your prejudiced fears." The words, though spoken quietly, hung in the air like a sooty smoke. Your. Human, she meant. "Your destruction of each other catches us as well but, unlike you, we can ill−afford the losses. The cultures who embrace us are the first to be targeted for genocide." "What?" "The Gypsies and the Jews, most recently. Others back through our histories. Babylon, Troy, and Ur were all cities where we had settled, and were welcomed and admired by the humans. Jerusalem before the Crusades, Peking and Tashkent before the Communists, were all home cities for viraran families. Now gone. The survivors have joined other families." "How many viraran are there?" He knew even as the words left his lips the she wouldn't answer. "We are fewer now than at any time since the cataclysm that destroyed the Antelian civilization." "Antelian?" he asked. "Your legends call it Atlantis." Michael laughed, tried to speak but his hilarity choked his meaning. Her quelling look sobered him enough to sit in silence, holding in his laughter. Anais kissed his fingers and nibbled the tips of his nails. With a sideways glance, she said, "It existed. Our history is shorter than yours and our record−keeping better." He snickered before realizing she had again fed on his wrist. This time the venom−ecstasy hit before he could raise defenses. She'd blind−sided him with her conversation. Logic, loyalty, and restraint whirled away. In the valley between her silk and lace−covered breasts her cocoa smell intensified, and reminded him of baking brownies. The smell of a pan of brownies being pulled from a hot oven. Winter afternoons in his mother's kitchen. That picture cleared his head of the viraran's allure. He yanked his head from her hands and stood, dumping Anais unceremoniously from his lap where she'd nestled moments before. She caught herself before falling on her sleek tush, appearing as graceful in her recovery as a gymnast dismounting a balance beam. "Stop it." Michael stumbled to the edge of the parapet and hung over the low wall, breathing slowly, forcing her send bit by bit from his mind. Finally in control of his body and emotions, he turned to face her. Anais had curled up on the little bench, hugging her knees, exposing a long line of thigh for his eyes. She looked amused, not a bit angry, and smiled at him. "You are −− unexpected." She chuckled. "How quaint you are in your devoted commitment to Anya." "Oh?" he said. His mild answer camouflaged his disgust. Committed? Yes, and nothing this little slut could do would change that. The smile froze. Her eyes changed from luminescent green to icy emerald and he realized she kept had an ear on his thoughts. 131

"You're family for God's sake. Why would you want to hurt her this way?" he whispered into the suddenly chilly spring air. "She would not care, chéri. Why do you?" "Casey would care, and so would I. She feeds from other men, I know, but she loves me." Anais straighten her legs and stretched, pulling the cloth of her re−buttoned dress tightly against her curves. She arose like a goddess from a celestial throne and gestured to him to follow. Latching the window behind her, she led back into the hallway, stopping before one of the identical doors. "Do you know why Anya came to Paris?" she asked in a whisper smaller than the door's hinges creaking. Michael glanced in the room, and then stared. Oblivious to an audience, Casey and a dark−skinned man lay entwined on the rumpled sheets. Mesmerized by the sight of the other man's large dusky hands on Casey's golden skin, Michael watched as she undulated against him, moaning deep in her throat −− a sound Michael knew well −− announcing her eminent orgasm. "To mate," Anais whispered in his ear. Michael threw one last agonized glance at the couple on the bed, and then took the only sensible action. He ran. Anais's chuckle followed him up the stairs and down the passageway to the suite. Slamming closed the door, he felt her touch drop away. The door to Val's room stood ajar and, needing to talk, Michael stepped in. "Val?" he said, before registering the scene before him. Casey's twin was asleep with his arms wrapped around Miranda who wore nothing but her long titian mane. One child−like hand curled in Val's hair, the other was between her legs. At the sound of his name, Val's dream−laded eyes opened. "Hmm?" Michael glared at him. "Jesus Christ, you're all sluts." He turned −− but not before seeing the surprised look in Val's face −− and stomped from the suite, down the stairway and out on to the streets of Paris. Without an idea of where to go, Michael walked. He avoided the larger boulevards and the tiniest alleys. A late afternoon shower drove him inside a small tavern. Several men sat smoking and drinking, watching a soccer match on a tiny black and white TV. The bartender asked him a question and Michael pointed to the beer glass sitting in front of the nearest patron. Michael listened to the patter of conversation around him for a while before moving to a booth near the window. Uncertain of the cost of the beer, or the value of the money in his pocket, he nursed his way to the bottom of three beers before the rain stopped. He held up one of each denomination of the colorful bills in his possession and allowed the bartender to pick one. A few coins were returned, which Michael left sitting on the bar, not knowing if he'd left a tip or an insult. The air outside was thankfully free from the stink of French cigarettes. The sky had a red tinge to the evening purple. "Red sky at night," he whispered. "Sailor's delight." Val's voice came from the other side of the doorway. "Hi." Michael turned and walked toward a brightly lighted street at the corner of the alley. Val fell into step beside him. "Where are we going?" Val asked after a few blocks. Shrugging, Michael turned down another alley. Val grabbed his arm. "What happened today, sport?" The hand that gripped his arm held on, preventing further walking. "Why the fuck did she bring me along to her mating?" Michael blurted. "Ah!" Val said, a knowing expression on his face. "You found out." "Yeah." Michael kept the picture of Casey and her mate from his mind. The viraran released his grip. "She's having trouble getting knocked−up. Females need to be coddled and cozy to catch. Casey is happier when you're around." Val strolled down the street and Michael followed. "You weren't supposed to find out. Who told?" "I met Anais when I chased after Casey." "Anais?" Val said, faltering in his pace. "Ah, shit." They walked another block. The street ended against a slow−moving river. A narrow walkway followed the channel. "She take a piece off you?" Val asked. 132

"She tried," Michael admitted, regretting his honesty as Val chuckled. "When I said 'no' she got pissed off. That's when..." "She told you about what Casey was up to?" Michael shook his head. "Nah, not nasty enough. She showed me what Casey and whatever−his−name−is were doing while I had been busy defending monogamy." "Monogamous? You?" Val said. They had never mentioned Nicole after Val took her on to Philly. Michael blushed. A long silence followed in which Michael resolutely refused a tendril of send. Finally Val sighed. "So, you get ambushed by Anais, see your lover being boffed by a black guy, and then, when you come to cry on my shoulder, find me snuggled in post−coital bliss with a bucky−assed naked nymphet." "I can't believe you'd admit it." "Except coitus never happened. I fell asleep; Miranda came in and needed a cuddle. I was too tired to tell her anything −− like 'get your clothes back on' −− so I let her behavior go. She wanted held and I wanted to sleep. You stomped in and saw the whole thing. I wasn't doing anything but napping." "She was..." Michael began. "Masturbating? So what? I hadn't done her, wasn't doing her, and aren't going to do her later." "But..." "What bothers you more?" Val snorted. "Her masturbating or that I didn't help?" "Jesus!" Michael said. "She's your cousin, and a little girl." Val laughed. "Casey's my twin and I can't remember a time when we didn't have each other to touch." Michael had heard enough and turned back the way they'd come. Val's next comment stopped him. "Miranda's twin is dead, sport. She's lost her mind with the grief of losing him." Whirling to face the viraran, Michael accused, "So you'll use a little of that flaunted empathy and be what she really needs, huh? Not because you like little girls, though." The brick−walled house interrupted his path as he was driven back by Val's rushing attack. Pressed up against the rough surface, the viraran's forearm across his throat and his hand caught above his head, a slightly hysterical thought crossed his mind. Paris had sounded like an exciting adventure, and had turned out too exciting. After three beers, if Michael weren't careful, in addition to pissing Val off, he'd be pissed on too. "What the fuck do you know about being an empath?" Val whispered. Michael could feel Val nuzzle his neck. Shit, no. After taking a deep breath, the viraran merely exhaled with a sigh, and loosened the pressure on the human's neck. A warm wetness trickled down Michael's hand; the coarse bricks had bloodied his knuckles. When Val started to lick the stickiness away, Michael flinched. For the longest minute, Val said nothing, looking into Michael's face while the human looked everywhere else. "Let me tell you what being an empath is." Val took a step back and jabbed a finger in Michael's chest when he tagged along. "Stay there," he said, and moved to the other side of the sidewalk. "Don't say a fucking word, or you'll find out how close to the line you are treading." Michael leaned slowly back against the wall, but crossed his arms to hide the tremble. With a rush of words Val said, "I walk a tightrope." He stepped on the curb and balanced his way a few steps. "What does Miranda want? A twin, a friend, a lover, a father, a teacher, or a warm body to cuddle against? All of those things combined, or some alone? What does Miranda need? Not necessarily the same thing. I have to figure out both and which to give her." He twirled on the balls of his feet easily, and came back the same way to where Michael stood. Without warning, he was across the sidewalk and pressed against Michael again. "Miranda's easy compared to you," Val said, and took another deep breath while nuzzling Michael's neck. "Your smell is so amazing." Michael's arms were trapped across his chest. "Want do you want? Fed? Take it and get away from me," he said, pushing to get the viraran's attention. Val withdrew a little, not even a step. "I said 'shut up'." He glared until Michael nodded. "Anyway, it's not what I want. The question is... What do you want?" Val asked, and then chuckled. "The answer is... It all depends, sport. When you're sober I make you crazy. When you're buzzing with venom, you 133

tolerate me." Val grabbed Michael's wrist and brought the bloody knuckles to his lips, smiling at the other's reluctance. Val's tongue soothed the brush−burn and stopped the bleeding. "You like me best when you're stoned, so I get you high whenever possible." The tiny amount of blood had darkened his lips. "It's when you're drunk that I have to be careful," Val whispered. "Why?" The word slipped out before Michael could stop it. Val smiled and said, "Oops." He laid his forehead against Michael's. A passing couple shot a quick glance at them. Val ignored them and sent a warning to Michael to do the same. "Damn it, Val. They think we're gay," Michael said, pushing hard but with no success, past caring about Val's annoyance. "One of us is and it's not me." Val laughed at Michael's snort of denial. "That's the tightrope, I walk. There is a small part of you that, when you're drunk, shouts out to me. Wondering what really kissing me would be like, wondering what I taste like, what I feel like, whether you would do me, or I would do..." Michael pushed harder. "Shut up." Smiling, Val stepped back. "There speaks the Puritan judge, watching every fantasy and thought. So now you know my dilemma. Do I listen to the voice that plaintively calls me, or the one that orders me to behave? It gets really hard..." Val laughed at the unintentional double entendre. "Tricky, I mean, especially when I'm high, you're drunk, and Casey has us both venom−blissed. Do I listen to the one I prefer and give you what you want, or do I withhold your heart's desire and deny what I know?" Val pulled Michael away from the wall. "Come on. Let's get high, be friends and eliminate the entire problem." Le Noir sat below street level. The pounding music deadened the senses and created an envelope of privacy around each occupant. After two hits off Val's score, Michael realized with an amused dismay that Val had chosen a gay club. Drop−dead gorgeous women gyrated in each other's arms, as did their carefully made−up male counterparts. "What will happen to Miranda?" Michael asked during a break between sets. "I'm taking her home to my wife," Val said, taking a hit. Michael cocked his head. "The family's solution is to lock her in a room until she's old enough, and then send someone in to knock her up. Whatever Kelly and I figure out has got to be more of a life than that." "And when she's old enough? You'll do the honors?" Val shrugged. "Maybe. Long time from now." His eyes hardened. "Better me than a stranger." A young man dressed in a leather jacket and pants sent over a pair of beers from the bar. A couple lengths of silver chain were looped around his waist and a black cap covered his face with shifting shadows. He strolled toward the table. Michael looked to Val, who shook his head. "He's your problem, sport." "Hi, babe. Like my costume?" the admirer whispered. Casey made a wonderfully androgynous mystery. From the reaction of the other patrons, no one but Val and Michael were completely sure of Casey's gender. She danced with anyone who asked, as did Val, and both sets of lips burned with the viraran red. Michael guarded the tiny table, managing to keep two chairs, one by planting himself in it, the other by stretching his legs across it. He nursed his beers and kept the bowl full for Val's frequent visits. When asked to dance, he refused. One man persisted, grabbing an empty chair to sit beside the wallflower. Michael pointed to Val and, when a perverse inspiration seized him, then to Casey. Leveling his gaze at the intruder, Michael smiled and shrugged. He shouted over the colophony, "Ask them. They own me." As he said the words, meaning only to discourage the unwanted attentions, a dreadful realization bathed him in a cold sweat. In the lie lived a furtive truth. The phrase echoed in his head long after the trio left the club for another where food was available. Wandering the streets, generally back toward the Zurin house, Casey cuddled under his arm, sometimes holding Val's hand. Other times, she'd perform gymnastics, using the edges of fountains as her apparatus. Passers−bye tossed coins at her feet, thinking her a street−artist performing at an off−hour. This set the trio to laughing. Michael juggled three smooth rocks he found in the basin of one fountain 134

while Casey did her harlequin act. Val bantered with strangers until they gave in and anted−up to escape his persuasions. They dumped the money in another fountain where coins gleamed in the floodlights surrounding it. Finally, after Val disappeared, after furious silent sex, after Casey fed and fell into her deep−as−death sleep, Michael examined the change the phrase had wrought. He felt like an actor, watching himself in a film. Detached from the action, but remembering the way the deeds were done. As if the real world took place in a mirror, where he could see the real Michael performing the expected role, but the mirror person felt the pain of each failure. He fell asleep dreaming of being split in two. Each emotion, each pleasure, each fear, and each ache halved, and doubled, in the process. The dream −− and he knew he dreamt −− started innocently enough. A twilight pool in a humid forest beckoned. He knew Casey followed because her scent wafted like a mist in the damp air. Stripping hurriedly, wanting desperately to feel the cool sleek water on every part of him, Michael dove into the tranquil pool. In the way of dreams, he scarcely had to think about air. When he needed a breath, the surface was there, as cool and sweet as the water. Casey streaked through the water like a seal; smiling at him from beneath the crystal ripples. She dream−whispered under the water. The utterance floated like a soap bubble. He touched the filmy dome and it popped releasing a single word. 'Magic,' she'd said. Ah! The water could be inhaled like oxygen and would sustain him as well. Michael sunk beneath the miraculous liquid and took his first enchanted breath. The wetness burned but the next lungful quenched the fire, merely warming his heart with a new mixture of elements. Like butter on his chin, he could feel no difference between the temperature of his skin and the pool, which was suddenly extremely deep. Playing tag, Casey led him into color−filled grottos and quivering forests of gray−green plant−life. Fish of exotic shapes and hues darted before them. He caught her, the most exotic fish of all. The golden tint of her skin looked amber in the bright waters. Her hair floated around her face like a living part of her. Somehow −− more magic −− he could still smell her creamy scent in the currents that flowed from her to him and back like ribbons tying them, tangling them together. Eddies lifted her breasts and his hands slipped brushing softly past the tightness of her nipples, finding a different, warmer wetness between her tawny thighs. She tasted of heat: hers, the pool's, the sun's, and the brightness of each. The brightness felt like love. Buoyant, almost weightless, their lovemaking couldn't be limited by up or down. The possible combinations proved endless but, even in dreams, the act has an endpoint. Michael's rocked him as he struggled to push deeper into Casey. They clung together resisting the loss of that contact. Laughing at the ridiculousness of the effort, they gently floated toward the surface. A leisurely kick, now and then, was enough to propel them skywards, visible as a remote circle of bright blue. One last kiss beneath the glass ceiling. One last look at the infinite depths. One quick glance to affirm the moment. The bottom of the pond returned to their feet with the first breath of air. Casey coughed hard to clear the last of the magic from her lungs, and then stood in the rapidly dwindling pool. Michael's admiration for her graceful body died in a shattering horror. Speckling her golden skin were dozens of maroon−black leeches. He yanked at one, the skin of which was rough like sand paper, and burst the engorged slug, splattering bright red blood. The pool stained with the color. Casey was screaming. Distantly, he could hear his own hoarse cries crescendo. He didn't scream because of the leeches bedecking her. His screams were in anticipation of the parasites that had found him. Even in paradise, there's always a price to pay.

Spring 2003 The drive back to Kate's house felt endless. She seemed content to let him stew about the Paris dream. A dream within a dream within a life within a life, the model had formed in his mind. 135

"What happened then?" he asked. At her silence, he bristled but saw she had planned to answer but again was weighing her words and his temper. "We sent you home. Your mother picked you up in Harrisburg and you spent a couple of days with your family." Kate sighed. "You moved back to campus, rather than live with me." "And that was that?" he asked. "No. We saw each other, almost every day. You wouldn't feed me, or sleep with me because of the nightmares. I left Placid for a couple weeks, and when I came back you were dating Liz again." "You bowed out, and let her have me," Michael said, not believing a word of her explanation. "Not quite, but close. We argued, you told me to leave you and Liz alone. I did." "No, you kept coming back." Neither said anything until she turned into her driveway. "Where are my car keys?" he asked. Kate pointed to a pegboard above the water heater in the garage. She went into the house leaving both the garage door and the kitchen door open. Inviting him to stay or go, his choice. He stepped through the inner door. She sat on the kitchen counter waiting for him. With all the questions queued in his mind he couldn't come up with the words to ask but one. 'Mine' Val had said, as had Katie. He had declared them his owners of his own free will. Michael leaned on the jamb and asked, "You have tracked me down repeatedly. Stalked me and deceived me." She looked away, anywhere but his face. "Am I yours? Do you think you own me?" Katie ran her hands through her hair and sighed. She shook her head and raised a hand toward him before dropping it to pick at the Formica. "Yes. As much as a person can claim another's life, I own you. No more than you own me, though. I deny deceiving you. Any lies were of your creation, my crime was one of simple omission. What you chose to believe of me, I played along." "Why?" "The eternal Michael question." Katie slipped from the counter and went to the sink. She drank straight from the tap as if she were parched. Wiping her chin on her sleeve, she turned to say, "Why do you not know? Why must I tell you the reasons when they are as obvious as an anvil? Go home, Michael." She walked away, dismissing him with a gesture. He grabbed her arm. "Why?" Kate hung her head a long minute, before looking him in the eyes. "To be with you, one more time," she said and pulled away. "Go home." She pushed him out the door and closed it behind him. His car grumbled before starting but finally turned over. The garage door closed as he backed into the quiet Sunday afternoon. A few blocks from his apartment building, Michael noticed the gas gauge registering empty and detoured for the Minut−Mart. After filling the tank, Michael bought a bottle of water and a box of doughnuts. His mailbox was stuffed full and, sitting in his car, he sorted the envelopes into piles. Grabbing the water, he opened the plastic cap without a glance and took a deep swallow. He gagged on the flavor and looked at the label. He'd grabbed mineral water instead of spring water. How could he have mistaken this label for the other? A prickly−cold feeling started and, with a sudden lurch, he catapulted into another memory.

Spring 1980

The first thing Michael noticed was the crowd in the common room. Usually by nine on a Friday night the frat was nearly empty. People gone for the weekend, others out with girlfriends or at parties. The room rocked with the music of a stereo speaker. None of the faces were of the guys he considered friends. Bits and pieces of sentences floated to him. 'Train', 'Loser, and 'best head I ever got' were the words he heard clearly. Ah, shit. Loser had engineered another train. The asshole had better not have used Quaaludes to grease the rails of another freshman coed. Dropping his tutor guide in the hall, Michael started up the stairs to check out the situation. Toad, who had just opened the second floor door, saw him and said, "Hey. Elf and Liz were both around, 136

looking for ya." Casey wouldn't let him be. Liz either. "Who's Loser got upstairs?" Michael asked. Toad shrugged. Butzie came up the stairs and stood looking up at them. "Who's Loser got pulling a train?" Michael asked. "Did he use Luders?" Looking as if he'd rather run than speak, Butz whispered, "Leave it alone, Geez. You don't wanna know." A voice echoed down the hallway from the open door, "Yeah, red−heads are hot." Toad grabbed Michael's arm but lost the struggle to hold him back. Loser saw him burst from the stairway and sprinted half the distance to the back stairs before Michael plowed him into the cinder block wall. Slamming the smaller man into the wall, enjoying the satisfying thud and crack, Michael barely felt the hands grabbing his arms and shoulders dragging him off the stunned Loser. Shouting incoherently, he almost missed Loser's first comment but heard the second like a hammer blow. "She volunteered. She came on to me." Two brothers carried−dragged Loser down the stairs, yelling for the first−aid kit. Michael shook off the hands holding him. The door to Loser's den stood ajar. Toad stepped in front of it. "I'll get her out," he offered. Michael shook his head. "I gotta talk to her. Liz isn't like this." Toad didn't move until Michael stared him down. "Don't be stupid." The room reeked of semen and stale sweat. The desk lamp had been covered with a red tee shirt and the weird radiance made the shadows flatter. Liz wasn't on the bed. A low rustle whirled him around. Casey shifted in the beanbag chair, kicked the door shut with one practiced motion, watching him with a stiff−lipped smile. In the ruby glow her lips were gray−black and her skin looked like pink silk. Her pupils shone as bright spots. She wore nothing but a silver necklace and bracelet. She knelt before him and pulled on his belt. Michael pushed her back into the chair and made a short noise, almost a 'no'. "Would you have rushed to defend my honor?" she asked. "Or is the gallantry reserved for her?" "You don't need my help." He turned to leave, but before he could turn the handle she was leaning on the door. He pulled once, testing her. "Don't you want what the others came to get?" Casey whispered. "I know you love a good blow−job." Disgusted, he stepped back out of her reach. "Why'd you come hunting here? Revenge?" "No, familiarity. I've fed here before, and semen is as good as blood." She would have come as a dream, slipping in and out without leaving even a memory. His key paved her way in. "You can't come back after this. You've burned your bridges." Girls who pulled stunts like this usually left school within a few days. "Not my bridges." Casey reached out and grabbed his shirtfront. Before he could respond her teeth were in his neck and the venom burned the few inches to his brain. When he opened his eyes the girl before him looked like Liz, felt like Liz, but the voice was pure Casey. "She's burned. Not me −− but I'm leaving anyway." The pinch of her second bite cleared his mind a little. Michael expelled her tendrils by visualizing himself in a brick box. Casey stood before him. She reached for her jumper and slipped it on. "Bitch." She snorted and looked around the floor until she found her shoes. "Did you have her job them all?" Casey fastened her sandals and smiled at him. "They will always think fondly of her skills." Liz would be the topic of conversation for the next three weeks until graduation. How would she withstand the rumors, even knowing they were lies? "Where is Liz?" he said. "Sleeping off the party." Casey opened the door. "With Val." Liz would not know the rumors were lies. A moment later Casey's cheek reddened with the mark of his handprint. She glared at him. "You will never do that again." Regardless of what Casey may or may not have deserved, he'd never hit a woman, never thought he ever would. He had loved this woman and, until this horrible act, thought he still might. 137

She walked down the hall. He sent to her, and she turned back. "What?" Several comments flitted by but one percolated through his anger and confusion. "I'll never forgive you for this." Shocked dismay whitened her face, the slapped shape standing out brighter in the pallor. She caught at her breath, and then again, a tear trickled on one cheek. Finally, she closed her eyes. When she opened them the color had come back to her face and her tears had disappeared. "Yes. You're right. You never will."

Spring 2003 Soon his car would be able to autopilot itself to Katie's house. The front door was closed but the sliding door to the back patio stood open. Breaking and entering crossed his mind. Would she press charges? 'An open door is an invitation' would be his defense, he thought with a grim laugh. Muffled music strengthened as he opened the basement door. The stairs were carpeted and he made no sound. Katie danced, eyes half−closed, movements eloquent and graceful. Mirror Katies whirled and mimicked each bend and kick. He watched a minute, heart in his throat, powerfully drawn to her. That such an angelic exterior could camouflage a malignant spirit. Michael pushed the power button on the mini−disc player. Katie took a few more steps and a final pirouette before stopping. Without glancing toward the intruder, she picked up a large sport bottle of water and chugged the contents. Not even the mirror Katies would look at him. "So." She finally made eye contact. "Now you know." "Why'd you do it?" "A stupid, petty act of spontaneous revenge. I walked into your frat room and found Liz there." "Then you and Val cooked up the rest?" "Val had nothing to do with any of it. He would have talked me out of it −− had he known what I was up to." "You said..." She snorted. "I said a lot of stuff. I was lying. I was angry and hurt and jealous. God, Michael. I was trying to keep you, or hurt you. All I could think is if you didn't want me then I wasn't going to let Liz have you." "So you set the whole thing up?" he asked. She threw the bottle to the floor. "I didn't plan it. She was there. I was there. I heard Loser offer her a soda, and caught the thought of drugging the drink. I bit her, sent her a sexy dream and put her in your bed. I seduced Loser after I drank the soda, and then just..." "Blew every brother in the train? Sent them all 'sexy dreams'?" "Yes and no. Loser and the next two. The rest only thought I had." "Letting Liz and me and everyone think so." She nodded. "Those last weeks were hell. I remember that, but..." Michael stopped confused. He remembered thinking that Liz had pulled train, remembered feeling guilty because she'd been at the house to see him and he'd never warned her about Loser. There wasn't even a hint in his memories that Casey had been involved at all. He'd stood by Liz, which had quieted the rumors a little. Bye and bye, he'd even forgotten about the whole incident. "You married her. You settled for revenge, too." "Not revenge. I loved her," he said tired of this part of their argument already. "We shared a lot of good times." Katie's eyes blazed. "You shared nothing but unhappiness." He almost laughed; she was pitiful in her denial. "Fifteen years and two kids are a lot more than unhappiness." "You shared nothing. You had me, and Liz had your money and her children. Nothing!" "Our kids," Michael corrected. Katie shook her head, exactly one small twist of her chin, as if the movement hurt her neck. 138

"Her kids. Not yours." Michael took two angry steps toward her, but stopped when her hand came up in a gesture for him to halt. "She was losing you. She knew you'd never leave if there were a child involved. So she got pregnant, and then another for insurance. Kyle and Kim. Neither even looks like you." His children. Not his children? "You love them, Michael. They are your children, but not your off−spring." "How do you know? Or are you lying again?" Michael asked, but he knew the truth already. Nicole and two childless years with Liz. They'd never used birth control. Katie took a step toward him, meaning to console him. The look on his face forbade her. "You will never forgive me. Not because of the fraternity train, but because you married Liz to hurt me. Every affair with another me gave you another chance to punish me. Yes, you knew who I was, each and every time." He had nothing more to say. No more questions. "I know a true prediction when I hear one. I had found the love of my life and drove him away. I paid every penance, did everything in my power, pulled every string I ever held to make it up to you. Let you hurt me, time after time, for cruel mistakes I made as a child." "A child?" She'd never been a child, always had been what she always had been. "You've grown so much wiser since then," Michael scoffed. "No, but I learn from my mistakes. You keep making the same stupid ones." Her patience had cracked again. "Go home. I'll be gone in a couple days and you can forget about me." "Until the next time. Give me a break. How about leaving me the fuck alone. Forever, this time." Meanwhile Michael had some questions for Liz. The kids were his, but she'd confess being in the wrong for the first time since he'd married her. Katie clicked the music back on, and started her dance where she'd left it. She never even glanced up as he left.

Winter 2004 Kevin Grant tapped at the office door before stepping into Michael's office. The door had been open, 'an open door is an invitation', as was his partner's policy. Michael was immersed in something at one of the three computers in the room. He owned five or six, Kevin knew. Michael looked up. "Hi, what's up?" Kevin gave it a minute until Michael finished and turned away from the screen. He knew from experience that his friend couldn't concentrate on speech if thinking at a terminal. Michael thought his business partner looked happy. Whatever Kevin had been doing on his vacation had been good for him. Lost weight, eyes and skin youthful and full of the fire of enthusiasm. He himself felt old and tired. Breaking up with Anne had been unpleasant and the spark hadn't come back yet. Kevin had planted his butt in the recliner and kicked up the footrest. He sat there grinning like the Cheshire Cat. "Okay, I'm here. What's up with you?" Michael's and Kevin's circles of management barely overlapped. Kevin headed wet research and Michael handled virtual research. Money hadn't been a problem since their first successes. Before that the Ruiz Group had been generous in start−up capitol. "We got one." Kevin's smile widened. "One? Oh!" The company had been trying to develop their own line of bio−drugs, rather than contracting to do RDfor the big guys. Kevin plopped a small glass vial on the desktop. MB/AF−51 had been written in black marker on the glass. "What does it do?" Michael asked. Kevin leaned forward and gazed into the vial as if it were a crystal ball. "This, my friend, will revolutionize medicine." Michael snorted. "Snake oil?" Kevin laughed. "Even bigger. This stuff was supposed to dissolve plaque from the arterial linings and end 139

the necessity for by−basses and stents." "Liquid−plumber?" Michael asked, remembering with difficulty the last project Anne had suggested. Kevin regarded him with concern. Michael hadn't been the same since he and Anne had called it quits. The new temporary Ruiz rep was a big guy with a smart−assed way of smiling. "Yeah, this is it." Kevin shook his head. "It doesn't work?" Michael said, wondering when Kevin would tell him the good news. "Yeah, but not like we thought." Kevin took a cleansing breath, enjoying the way air felt in his chest. A slight case of Congestive Heart Failure had prevented him from breathing deeply for so long. "Apparently it doesn't only dissolve plaque. Michael, this lil' baby dissolves the plaque from DNA too." Michael had read up on anything his company worked on, but this was new. He shrugged. "Okay, we didn't know this either. Amino acid residue deposits form on DNA. Cell mitosis is impaired because the replication process is not exact. The telomeres, which control the fraying of chromosomal strands during division, get shorter and shorter. That allows the inexact replication to continue. MB/AF−51 prevents plaque on DNA. The cell mitosis continues smoothly, the telomeres do their job and collateral effects of cellular dysfunction are reversed." Michael sat back in his chair and stared at his friend. Collateral effects. "You mean..." Kevin nodded. A grin started slowly, then turned into a laugh. "Holy shit." The sera would prevent and reverse the common effects of aging. The fountain of youth had been discovered and he owned 24.5%. Shit, he'd have to find Alex's number so the Ruiz Group could be notified. He hated to share this with them. The group had resisted any attempts Kevin and Michael had made to buy them out, and now the big one would be 51% theirs. Still, if this were as big and successful as Viagra or Lipo−ridase, there would be plenty of profits to spread around. "Where are we with animal trials?" Michael asked as he dialed the answering service for the Ruiz rep. "Third level successful. Controlled human trials are being planned, ASAP." The answering service took the message. Michael set down the phone slowly. He took a long look at his friend. "Some human studies have already happened, I think." Kevin nodded. A cardinal sin of research was experimenting on oneself, regardless of the promise of the treatment. "Mike, the CHF was killing me. The doctor gave me six months to live. That was eight months ago." Michael nodded. "Who else?" "Barry and Paula. There is a side−effect, so Maureen didn't take any." "What's that?" "Infertility in over half, about sixty−five percent, of the fourth generation in the mouse studies. Maureen wants kids and can afford to wait a couple years." Kevin said. Maureen was a twenty−two year old genius who didn't want to waste time in grad−school. She could crunch numbers and program computer files as well as Michael could and often did his job when he lecture−circuited or if a project needed fast−tracked. "Barry and Paula?" Michael said. "Same results." Kevin smiled as Michael picked up the vial. "Want to know how it feels?" He pulled a syringe packet from his lab coat pocket and tossed it on the desk. "Might help your memory loss." "What memory loss?" Michael said, continuing the inside joke. Michael had feared Alzheimer's a couple months earlier. He had seen Barry, a medical doctor−turned−researcher to have a check−up. Nothing stayed secret long and a month of memory jokes had circulated the facility until someone else had stepped into the limelight. The good news was that Barry had nothing but good news and told Michael to blame the memory problems on stress and fatigue and the bout of flu he'd suffered in the spring. "Thigh or abdomen. Use it or don't. Your decision, but I feel great." Kevin left and Michael held the vial in his hand for a while, but set it aside when the call from Ruiz came through. Talking to Alex always annoyed him. Michael hoped Anne's permanent replacement would fit in better. The vial sat on the desk most of the afternoon, until Barb stuck her head in to say goodbye. Friday 140

afternoons were a popular time to quit early. The vial caught the gleam of the setting sun when he finally filled the syringe and jabbed it into his thigh. He could feel the pinch and the heat as the bubble of liquid stretched his skin before seeping away. The foggy thick feeling in his head started before he had the chance to pull his slacks back up. His last thought was how this would play in the news. 'Local man dies of age−antidote overdose', and could see the black and white picture of him with his slacks around his ankles, dead on the carpeted floor. Shit. When Michael awoke, the only light came from the screen saver on the computer. He clambered to his knees. He jiggled the tracker−ball and the clock informed him that it was 11:52 PM. Disoriented, he nearly fell again before realizing his slacks were still entangled around his ankles. The syringe lay where he had dropped it, and he picked it up and carried it into the bathroom attached to his office. First things first, he rubbed the knot on his forehead. Looking in the mirror, Michael saw no wound just a nice bump turning a vivid purple. Would have −− did have −− a lousy headache. Probably smacked into the edge of the desk as he passed out. Kevin should have mentioned that little detail. Next item on his hastily drawn agenda demanded his attention. Michael had to piss like he'd chugged a gallon of beer. The color, bright orange−red, startled him anew. Another thing Kevin could have told him about. Michael had finished in the bathroom and was returning to his desk, meaning to phone Kevin and bitch a bit, when the first displaced thought crossed his mind. Damn, he hoped Val hadn't shown up already looking for him and this new age−antidote. What would the viraran do with longer lives? The recliner was closer and Michael made it that far. Sweat beaded on his brow as everything he'd forgotten popped up like the bubbles in beer. "Oh, my God." Like a movie playing backwards without sound he relived the hidden memories. Unlike the ones she'd induced in him with the soft−focus and sweetly reluctant explanations, these memories were the real thing. What he had seen and heard and felt and lived. Val, oh shit, Katie, and everything. The patina of fuzziness with which he remembered past events clear back, oh−my−God, to his own first womb−memory hurdled passed like a stampede of terrified beasts running toward a cliff. No more forgetting, he knew. The age−antidote was so much more than that. Bene−gene's newest success was the thing Katie had wanted and worked toward all these years. The lab, his education, and maybe even his birth for all he knew, were all engineered for this single result. What had she seen in him in the Institute so long ago? Why had she wanted this? Was it a way to make viraran less visible by making humans age slower? The puzzle could drive him insane if he let it. He remembered being crazy once. Katie had said they'd feared for his sanity. Amsterdam had done that to him... No, he corrected −− Andie had.

Fall 1999 The woman at the back table looked familiar. He collected his 3X5's and she smiled as he approached her. "Hi," she said. "You may not remember me..." He didn't but said, "I meet a lot of people, give me a minute." She held out her hand with the perfectly manicured nails and gold Rolex and said, "Kate Zurin, we briefly dated in college." Partial memories trickled back. "Casey! Hi. God, you look good." Her hair, as dark as he remembered, was smoothed back in a French twist. Heavy gold jewelry hung on her neck, ears and wrist. The suit−dress was extremely understated and therefore very expensive. He'd learned these things in the months since he'd started courting backers for his and Kevin's new project. "I liked your presentation. Bio−markers and computers, who'd have ever put those together, except you?" Kate seemed interested −− and solvent. He could make the pitch and if she said no all it would cost him 141

was the price of dinner with a beautiful woman. Win−win. "I could tell you more. We could catch up on things. Over dinner? Are you free?" he asked, smiling in what Liz had called his sincere−friend way. She checked her watch and he knew she was about to say no. "I'd really love to..." "But you're late for a meeting?" he supplied. He'd heard a million excuses, all of which basically meant not interested. Kate laughed. "No, actually a plane. I'm supposed to be at BWI in an hour." "Maybe when you get back?" He held out his card, and she took it without reading it. Bad sign. Kate turned away, took a step or two, and then looked back. "I have an extra ticket, if you want to come with me." Two hours and twenty−minutes later, somewhere over Nova Scotia he asked, "So where are we going?" "Amsterdam. I'm glad you had a passport." The passport had annoyed Liz. Made her think that he was planning to take off for a foreign land and forget about her and the kids. He kept the little blue booklet in his briefcase and renewed it regularly. Even he hadn't known why. Holland looked Dutch. The exquisite post−card perfect houses had tiny gardens, which, even in October, had splotches of colored flowers. A limo picked them up at the airport and deposited them in the Dam −− the center of the city's tourist district, two or three blocks from most of the attractions, and not much further from the infamous and largely safe red−light district. The luggage, all hers −− the schedule left no time for him to pack −− was taken to the small hotel along the nearby Prinsengracht. The streets were far less crowded than he expected, and the bicyclists were the vehicles to beware. They wouldn't stop for anything, including naive tourists busily gawking at the unoccupied Palace. Kate found the canal she wanted and a block later they entered Susie's Saloon. A tall young man in a long black jacket stood when he saw them. Short blond hair and bright green eyes, the man looked vaguely familiar. "Michael, this is my brother Lexi." Michael caught the look the two exchanged, but ignored it. He, also, would have had a few questions if his sister turned up on a trans−Atlantic jaunt with a stranger. "Hi." Lexi smiled. "Hi, sport. Welcome to the Nederlands." "Where's Andie?" Kate asked. To Michael's complete amazement, Lexi casually filled a pipe with pot and lit it. None of the other patrons even spared a second glance and, when Lexi passed the pipe to Michael, he took a hit. The first he'd had since college. Still liked it, always would. The first dreamy effects came as a surprise, he forgotten the feeling, but shock passed with the next sample. "She's getting a tattoo." Kate laughed. "Poor Andie. Has she figured out they'll always eventually fade away." "Tattoos are permanent." Michael was certain. Neither acknowledged his comment. "That's okay. She can always get another." Lexi replaced the pipe in an inner pocket and led down the street. Picture windows radiated ultraviolet−light and Michael glanced in curiously. A tall well−stacked blonde, wearing a leather bra and panties, stood invitingly within. Noticing his regard, she licked the leather quirt, and slapped it across her palm. Michael stopped dead, wondering if he was hallucinating, but the other windows nearby displayed a variety of the same type of wares. He felt a firm hand on his elbow. "Come on, Space Boy. Later, if you want. We gotta find my girl." Lexi pulled him away. "Besides, she a dominatrix." "What?" Michael said, feeling six steps behind mentally. Pot and jet lag... Culture lag, too, he guessed. "She specializes in bad boys who need spanked." Oh! "We'll find you something safer." Not all the windows had semi−mostly−naked women behind them. There was The International Hemp and Marijuana Museum, lots of porn shops −− some specializing in particular fetishes or sexual preferences 142

−− and bars. Michael laughed aloud when a swarthy bearded Lebanese−looking man came across one of the bridges in gold lame and black fishnet stockings. Had to be some kind of joke, but no one else was laughing or even staring. Tattoo shops were on every fourth corner, usually with a few young, disaffected youths hanging around. One had a street full of gawkers vying for a better position. "I think we've found her," Kate said. Lexi cleared a path and Michael could see a goddess through the plate glass. Tall, built like the blonde in the leather underwear, long tousled auburn hair, leaning back in a chair, and completely oblivious to the spectacle she created. The tattoo−ist was bent over one breast, putting the final touches on a serpent's tail that twined around in a spiral, covering half the girl's shoulder. A soft chime sounded as Kate opened the door. The artist had finished and had straightened to admire the truly amazing piece of design. The goddess looked up at Lexi with a grin. "You like?" Her voice had a tiny accent, and sent shivers down Michael spine. Lexi traced the snake from the forked tongue under her ear to the tip of the jewel−toned tail next to her nipple. Michael tucked his hands in his jacket pocket so strong was his desire to follow the same example. "Nice work. Free−hand?" he asked the denim−clad craftsman. The man nodded and began to clear away the odds and ends of ink and mixes. The needles were dropped in a hard red plastic jug for disposal. Kate's brother dug in his pocket, but the man shook his head. "She paid." Tossing down a brightly colored bill, Lexi said, "A bonus, it's beautiful." Kate had helped the girl find her shirt and coat. Michael realized she was dressed like Lexi, in a long black coat, a black t−shirt and tight black slacks, which emphasized her curvaceous form. "Andie−baby. This is Kate's friend Michael." Andie stopped chattering and looked closely at Michael and Kate. A knee−weakening smile formed on her perfect red lips. This woman had never worried, no lines, only a smattering of tiny freckles marred the creamy white skin. "You're dressed all wrong. Let's go shopping." Michael, whose clothing sat in a far−off hotel, agreed. Kate and Lexi seemed amiable to anything. The clothing stores had a remarkable selection of gray and black clothing. "No blue jeans?" he asked, after his host tossed another pair of black slacks in the hand basket. Sighing, Lexi grabbed a pair of jeans. A couple long−sleeved sweaters, black and gray, and a black bomber's jacket followed. Low boots and basic underwear finished the list. Lexi paid with a platinum bankcard, ignoring Michael's insistence, and sent him to change in a dressing room. The store would be most happy to deliver Mr. Zurin's other purchases to his hotel. They went across the street and around the corner to wait for the women. In his new black ensemble, Michael fit in with the other customers. The sign said Dutch Flowers Coffee Shop, but the menu listed about twenty kinds of tea and twice as many varieties of marijuana, but no coffee except cappuccino. The battered mismatched chairs were painted bright primary colors, the tables had pictures of tulips and irises lacquered into the surfaces, and the walls were covered in Van Gogh posters. Michael subdued his laughter and smoked Lexi's pipe until Kate and Andie showed up. Andie straddled Lexi's lap, and gave him a deep kiss, borrowing the smoke from his last hit. Michael dragged his eyes back to Kate. She was wearing leather pants and a startlingly white blouse with a short black wool jacket. Her wavy hair was brushed free of any styling and her face washed clean of any make−up. She looked beautiful, vibrant, and about eighteen. "Wow, you look great." She looked at him for a time, smiling but with a glint of tears in her eyes. He wished a clearer memory of her from college. Why would a lame compliment disconcert her so? "As do you. Thank you." The waitress, wearing something tight and black, served beers and the quartet shared another bowl. Andie prattled about some movie and Lexi rolled his eyes and groaned. "Chéri, you've seen that thing six times. Not again. Not tonight." "Tomorrow?" she asked, pouting. "Maybe, baby," he said. 143

Michael got the impression that this vacation was intended to please Andie. She certainly called the shots, though Lexi vetoed some activities. No casinos, no more tattoos, but she smiled when body piercing got an 'Hmmm, maybe'. By the time the two couples queued in front of a theatre, Michael was pleasantly fuzzy. Lexi slipped a few folded bills to the usher who promptly directed them to front row seats before a small velvet draped stage. Drinks were served, but Lexi kept his pipe in his pocket. The curtains parted and the action onstage snagged Michael's complete attention. A thin dark−skinned, dark−haired woman, dressed in layers of gossamer veils, stood quietly until the music started. She gyrated softly, down the stairs to the aisle and chose a drunk young man, who had been volunteered by his friends −− a group of rowdy college−aged Germans −− to follow her. Returning to the stage, she had him kneel. The dancer tied his hands to the backdrop with pink ribbons, and admonished him to stay there with a pseudo−serious shake of her long−nailed finger. The tempo of the music swelled, and the woman placed the end of one veil between her captive's teeth. She then swirled away. The tethered man lost hold of the fabric and the crowd jeered good−naturedly. The dancer laughed, and shrugged theatrically at her audience. She shimmied closer and by flipping her hips, challenged him to catch the trailing edge again. After a few tentative tries, he snagged the veil and the woman grinned happily at him. Resuming her dance, the performer shed the layers, spinning and shimming tantalizingly around her ever−more enthusiastic assistant. The last layer took the longest as she teased the German student with her thighs and rump. The veils were a pile of colors littering the stage in the tracings of her steps as she had danced them away. She was left with a g−string and the tiny gold harness that had held the upper coverings in place. She released her willing prisoner, kissed his cheek, and darted off the stage. Michael watched, and then looked at Kate for her reaction. She was studying him. God, he was tired −− what else could explain the sudden blur of tears? Kate leaned close and brushed her warm fingers over his temples. "You're okay. Shh," she whispered, her teeth catching at the skin of his neck. Michael rested his head against the seat cushions and let the action on the stage reclaim his attention. The subsequent acts continued variations on a theme −− a candle ballet, a leather fetish light SMinterlude, a side−splittingly funny banana dance that featured a large sexually frustrated gorilla, a gloriously buxom black woman, and several volunteers from the audience. The streets were packed with tourists when the show finished. Andie enthused about the grand finale. A muscularly fit woman had crept out onto the darkened stage, brandishing a sword (authentic looking, Michael thought). The warrior princess had her face painted with a compelling black mask. As she turned, searching the shadows, Michael's eye was captured by the series of smaller drawings down her bared back. Her costume consisted of a studded leather bra and skirt, and sandals that had long laces crossing her calves and tied tightly above her knees. Leather cuffs covered her wrists from thumbs to forearms. Satisfied, she knelt on the stage and rested her forehead on her sword hilt. Out of the shadows came a figure. Her enemy approached silently, sword raised for a quick blow at her defenseless neck. As the blade came down, the woman rolled to the side and parried the cut. An energetic fight followed. The brawny man gradually beat down his smaller opponent, and she finally knelt before him. She ran her hands up his legs, under his tunic and begged with no words for his mercy. Instead of killing her, he became aroused and took his vengeance on her body. A series of sexual positions followed, and the Amazon eventually rode the victor. Both made a show of climatic orgasm ending in a tender kiss between equals. A knife appeared from one of the leather cuffs, and the warrior woman stabbed her lover through his heart with only a little reluctance. She stood with the knife in her upraised hand and, immediately before the stage went dark, collapsed as if she were defeated. The lights came up and the unscathed warriors took bows and kissed again. Now Andie wanted a sword, too. "Oh, baby−girl. You are quite scary enough already," Lexi said with a laugh. With a grin at Michael, who nodded his agreement, he gave the woman a quick hug. "Let's go dancing, instead." Andie sulked and gave Lexi an averted look. "You'll dance with Katie and I'll be left out." 144

"Ah, but you forget. We have the sport along," −− it took Michael a moment to realize that Lexi referred to him −− "and he will dance with you, too." "Can you dance?" Andie asked, pirouetting before him. "I can try," Michael said. Andie giggled and grabbed his hand, pulling him with irresistible strength into a jog. He glanced back at Kate and Lexi. Lexi had his arm draped over Kate's shoulder. "Run along children. We'll catch up. Andie, Novae Club." Michael wondered a moment about the anguished expression on Kate's face, but his escort's antics required his attention to prevent a fall on the cobbled sidewalks, which also served as the street for the rare car. The Novae was a three−story warehouse in a small alley. The narrow space between the club and the museum next door thronged with revelers of all ages waiting for admission. Michael angled for the back of the line but Andie tugged him to the front. She sidled up to one of the gatekeepers and smiled her ingenuous, sexy smile. "Hi, Peter!" The well−pierced bouncer grinned. "Andie! Welcome. Where is Lex?" He had rows of silver studs through each earlobe and eyebrow and one in the side of his nose. A fleur−de−lis tattoo decorated one cheekbone. Others peeked from beneath his shirtsleeves. "He's too slow. I like to run." The big blond smiled his appreciation of the image her words invoked. "So, do we get in?" Andie asked. Peter frowned slightly and shook his head. "I don't know, liebling. The club is crowded." Andie pouted, and then brightened. "I'll show you my new tattoo." She pulled at the collar of her blouse enough to show the head of the serpent. "Later." She traced her fingers along the outside of her shirt to illustrate the path and direction the snake had taken. Peter's eyes glowed with anticipation as he waved them through. No one in the queue seemed put out or annoyed. As a large crowd of noisy partiers burst from the heavy brass−lined doors, the music swelled. The other bouncer counted the heads and motioned the first group in line to follow Andie and Michael. The club had several levels, each dance floor partially visible from each of the seating areas and bars. Fans of computer−generated music−queued multi−colored lights streamed from above each bank of speakers. Entering the parquet dance floor meant stepping into a well of sound and light. The table areas were slightly quieter behind Plexiglas partitions. Pastel beams from high above bathed the individual booths. The beams criss−crossed like searchlights. Andie tossed her long trench coat over a hook, and tugged at Michael's sleeve to hurry him to do the same. His coat joined hers, and the girl −− Michael had begun to suspect she was either far younger than she looked, or that she wasn't quite right −− took him by the hand to lead the way to the dance floor. Michael glanced around at the other dancers moving and twisting in the intricate patterns of individual styles. Self−conscious and feeling awkwardly out of sync with the tempo, he tried to partner the whirling dervish the music had made of Andie. He wondered when Kate and Lexi would show up to save him from the girl's inexhaustible energy. Abruptly, Andie stopped dancing and looked at him. She stepped very close brushing her breasts against his chest. He shouldn't have been able to hear her but her question came clearly. "What's wrong? Don't you like dancing with me?" She raised her arms to rest on his shoulders and laid her face against his neck. "Not you. I'm −− nervous, I guess." He felt her head move in a nod of understanding. She began a slow swaying movement that he followed easily. Slow−dancing to a metal−rock song, he thought with a shrug, starting to feel hardened from the pressure of her hips against his groin. He felt her lick the skin beneath his ear and the touch of her teeth. Kissing her was the easiest thing in the world to do as the music and lights and crowd of strangers faded into the background. "Feel better?" she asked. He did. The rhythm of the music entered his bloodstream and the beat changed the cadence of his pulse. He remembered feeling like this, but not where and when. Alive −− each breath a thing of wonder, the curve of a smile a wish come true, the rise and fall of a breast causing his heat to flare, the depth of a kiss like diving into an unexplored sea. Not this red−haired witchling −− Kate. Once before and 145

now to be again, his Kate. Michael turned, feeling a pull. Kate stood there. The curve of her smile granted his most recent wish. Her lips, slippery soft, waited for him, promising possibilities he'd long forgotten. Kissing her made him thirty, or twenty−five or even sixteen again. Her lithe body clung to his, filling every hole left by her absence. Moving slowly to music to which the other dancers jumped and gyrated, Michael explored her face, lips, and neck. The creamy scent of her skin fired his passion −− he loved the way she smelled. Her leather pants fit and felt like a second skin as he stroked the curve of her ass, pulling her tight against his hard that had continued to grow until the sensation hovered somewhere between pain and ecstasy. "Breath, sport." Lexi's amused voice intruded on the interlude. Kate's brown eyes flashed annoyance but any words she had died unspoken as Lexi said, "Slow and steady. Remember? Don't want to scare anybody." Lexi sat them at a booth after offering the occupants a wad of currency to vacate. He waved down a waitress with another bill and within a few minutes four Heineken drafts sat sweating on the scarred table. Andie, perched on the top of the high−backed bench, chair−danced as her bright eyes scanned the crowd. Her vitality mirrored the crowd's energy. A slender high−foreheaded blond man asked her to dance. With a quick glance at Lexi for permission she leapt down and darted off, dragging her partner along. Lexi watched her carefully. "She's kinda up tonight, huh?" Michael asked Kate, who shrugged. Lexi laughed. "That's putting it mildly. Good she gets the wild spent far from home." "Don't want the neighbors to talk?" Michael joked, smoothing Kate's hair, curling strands into ringlets around his fingers. "No neighbors. Andie was driving Kelly nuts." "Who's Kelly?" Michael asked. There was a sub−current in the conversation he hadn't figured out. "My wife." Lexi answered casually enough, but Michael could tell he waited for a reaction. "Then who is Andie?" The petting and necking had suggested Andie was Lexi's girlfriend. Did his wife know his mistress? Kate said, "My brother is her −− guardian." "Guardian?" He shook his head, thinking of the kisses Lexi and Andie had shared, definitely not platonic. "Andie kisses everyone... Or did you think you were special?" Lexi asked drolly. Michael blushed, remembering the thrill of kissing a woman young enough to be his daughter. "You know she's not quite sane. Don't you?" Michael nodded and looked at Andie, wiggling and shaking to the wild tune. "What's wrong with her?" Lexi shrugged. "Bi−polar, sort of. She'll always be this way. Sometimes Andie can seem quite normal. Two minutes later she'll jump into a river." Michael felt Kate's hand on his thigh, distracting him from the conversation. "Too bad," he said, losing his concentration as her fingers stroked the inseam. "Andie is..." Wild, wonderful, exciting, sweet, sexy and strange, he thought. Lexi let the pause stretch, and finally said, "Yeah, she certainly is all that. No one will ever be able to tell by looking at her that she is damaged beyond repair." He rubbed his eyes and, though not paying attention, Michael thought he'd wiped away tears. Andie shimmied back to the table and beckoned to Lexi, using her hands like a hula dancer's to entice him from the booth. "Lexi, dance. Dance with me," she sang to him. Her eyes shimmered, twin emeralds caught in the madly oscillating lights. Lexi stretched and slid from the bench. He bowed deeply and Andie laughed. "Whatever you desire, milady. Be gentle with me." Andie giggled, delighted with his play. Michael watched them dance a minute but Kate's eyes drew him back. "She's beautiful. Go ahead. Watch her if you'd like." Michael glanced at Andie and shook his head. "She's like a gaudy pebble, flashy and outrageous. You are like gold, solid with real value as well as subtle glow..." He stopped, feeling a little foolish in his poetry. Kate looked at him from beneath her lashes and smiled. Okay, she liked his blather. "You warm me, your smell, your touch, the way your eyes capture mine." Michael stroked her face and buried his fingers in her thick hair. Surrounded by strangers felt as private as being alone with her. "Kissing you feels like being complete." He had more to say; about her eyes, her smile, the curve of her lips, the way her voice slid easily in his ears and lit a lamp in his soul, but her tongue touched the dip in the center of his 146

chin and he kissed her, showing instead of telling. "I heard someone mention a hotel a while back, before I fell in love again." She smiled, eyes still closed, face tilted waiting for another kiss. "Does it exist or do I make love to you on the table?" She laughed. "Either. Whatever you desire, milord," she said, mimicking Lexi with the same result. Michael stopped frequently to kiss and caress Kate until her tiny moans drove him to break off the lovely torture and continue toward the hotel. The low lapping sound of the canals and the arched bridges lined with strings of miniature white lights made stopping on each a romantic must. She seemed content to let each pause linger until he decided to move on. Paris couldn't be better suited for lovers than this quiet little Venice. She pointed out landmarks as they strolled from one resting point to the next. The tall narrow houses, some obviously settling badly into the boggy reclaimed land beneath them, lined each street. Wide windows, unencumbered by mini−blinds or draperies, spilled soft yellow light onto the brick sidewalks. On each sill sat a vase holding flowers, a small sculpture or artful arrangement of china dishes. Sometimes they walked in the street, distinguished only by the metal posts blocking the pedestrian's path from being used as parking spaces. Each post bore a triple−X, the city's ever−present symbol. The rare street−dweller remained hidden under tarps, and didn't accost the passersby with sad tales and empty grasping hands. Dozens of ugly drab bicycles were chained in layers of wheels and spokes to every porch railing. Kate said the city had more bikes than people, and Michael found the statement easy to believe. In the semi−circular pattern of canals that make up the center of Amsterdam, Michael had become disoriented. The Dam loomed after a half−dozen blocks and the hotel stood only two canals and a half block further. The night−manager welcomed them in quiet tones. "Your purchases are in the suite, Ms. Zurin. May I inquire if your guest needs a key?" He pushed forward an information card and a pen. Kate nodded. "Perhaps, Mr. Loeck, I could finish registering in the morning?" The manager hesitated, gauging Michael's identity and caliber with his eyes and years of experience greeting tourists of all kinds. "Of course, that will be fine," he said, and handed her a pair of magnetic keys. Michael tried not to sigh his relief at passing whatever test he'd just taken. He silently thanked Lexi for his fashion sense and platinum VISA. The cage of an elevator would have been a squeeze for three, but the tight quarters encouraged Michael to cuddle Kate against the one solid wall. The hallway was too narrow for them to walk side−by−side so he followed her through the oddly twisted corridor, one hand on her waist. The key opened a door at the back of the hotel. Large windows stood at the far end of the parlor, and the vista begged to be gazed upon. The rooms overlooked a turn in the Prinsengracht −− the Prince's Canal. Along the dark ribbon of water he could see the lighted bridges arching like swags of brightly twinkling stars. A church steeple towered in the distance. "Westerkirk," Katie whispered before he could ask. "West Church. Anne Frank's church." The Dutch allowed darkness in their city, treading the line between safety and romance. Michael could see day−bright intersections and cozily shadowed tree−lined canals. Alone and in small groups, cyclists rode through the car−empty streets. Sometimes a biker's back fender would hold a brown bag of groceries in a basket, usually with a frothy bouquet of fresh flowers perched on top. Young men ferried young women who, sitting demurely sidesaddle, clutched the pedalist's jacket with one hand and, if not grasping a satchel, punctuated their chatter with the other. Houseboats lined the canal, the decks filled with large containers of growing things. The small round windows glowed with lamplight, the oblong reflections rippling in the slow current. He could hear the slapping of the water against the concrete sides as a glass−topped ferry boat filled with tourists eased down the channel. In the distance a ship released a mournful hoot, a lonely sound over the deeper water of the Amstel River 147

and Markermeer. The unmistakable rattling of a train echoed through the canyon formed by the Prinsengracht. Some classical tune drifted up from a house across the canal. Michael felt Kate's arms encircle him. Her breasts pressed against his back and her cheek against his shoulder. Both hands held wineglasses filled with a bubbling clear pink vintage. He stroked the skin of her wrist before accepting the goblet. She ducked beneath his arm and joined him in his admiration for the whole experience of sights and night−noises, the utterly foreign rhythm of a new place. "I can't believe I'm here," he said sipping the delicate wine. "Neither can I. I never expected..." Kate sipped her wine without finishing her words. "Expected what?" Kate set down the glass and ran her fingers through his hair, watching with happy concentration the strands as she released them. She snuggled her nose beneath his chin and sighed. "I didn't expect you to accept. Until the plane took−off, I kept thinking you would change your mind." "Who was the other ticket for?" He wondered if her husband or boyfriend hadn't shown up. She shook her head. "I always buy two." "Just in case you meet an old friend?" he asked, slightly jealous at the thought. Kate kissed his chin. "No. I prefer no seatmate to one I haven't chosen." "You chose me." He smiled, feeling lucky or honored or thrilled or high as an autumn cloud −− or some mixed version of all of those and more. Pressing her against the waist−high railing and holding her there, Michael undid the snowy−white blouse, pausing between each button to caress the newly exposed skin. Slipping the silk down past her shoulders, entrapping her elbows behind her, arching her back over his arm, he kissed the warm skin. The lacy bra, serving no function except decorative, yielded to his explorations of her tight erect nipples. The little noises escaping her encouraged his passion. The thought came to him; he could make her naked, here −− for all Amsterdam to see −− and she would allow it because he wanted it. Feeling reckless, Michael turned her to face the city, keeping her hands trapped in the sleeves of her blouse. Her palms stroked his hardness and he groaned into her thick dark hair. He teased her exposed breasts before slipping his hands down to unsnap the waistband of her pants. The bit of lace covering her there was warm and damp. His fingers sought and found the part of her that set tremors through her muscles and a low moan loose from her throat. "Please," she murmured as he continued to stroke her tender center. Kate writhed against his fingers. "Please," she whispered again, squeezing his erection. "Not yet." Michael held her tightly, kissing her neck. He synchronized little nips with the devastation wrought by his fingers. Her shoulders heaved and he could hear the delicate silk fabric give way as she ripped her fist from the restraints. Michael stepped back, feeling like a god. She whirled to face him, breathing raggedly. "Undress for me," he said, and leaned against the wall beside the window. Her eyes narrowed. She glanced out the open window, and then at him. The complex notes of another composition floated on the night air. Swaying to the tempo of the sedate melody, Kate pulled the remnants of the blouse from her wrist. She swung her hips and turned with the movement. Leaning forward from the waist, she unzipped her high shoes and kicked them off. Hitching her thumbs inside the waistband and swiveling her rump, the leather slacks slipped down to ride on her hips, exposing the twin dimples of her lower back. Kate looked over one shoulder, flipped down the strap of her bra, and then repeated the come−hither look on the other side. Rolling her hips, she turned to face him. Unhooking the clasp, she let the bit of lace and elastic slide to the floor. Her hands came back up her body, briefly cupping her breasts, and then up her neck to raise her hair. One hand then the other fell to the leather folded on her hips, with a push and a wiggle, she slithered the pants to her ankles and stepped out. Only the lace thong remained. She smiled and reached for his hand. Hooking his fingers under the string of material, Kate motioned for him to kneel. He kissed her navel and worked the lace nothing down her firmly muscled legs. "Now, Michael?" she asked, lowering her body to the floor, still in front of the window though only the 148

moon −− and he −− could see her, leaving the panties in his hand as a souvenir of her dance. He had no answer except the obvious one. Like feast following famine, Michael wanted more of her than one helping. The fury in front of the window proved to an appetizer, fast and hot. Leaving their scattered clothing where it fell, Kate curled beside him on the chaise and Michael tipped the wineglass for her to sip. "Was it always like this?" he asked. Her warm sleek body cuddled close had started the feather−light quivering that he knew would eventually lead to him wanting her again. "Yes. Our −− loving, has always been −− special," she said hesitantly, pondering her words carefully, he thought. "Because of you? Or because of me?" He grinned, but she didn't smile back. "Because of us and how we are together," she said. The tantalizing quivers became shattering earthquakes as her hands and lips encircled his cock. The warm wet of her tongue and the chilling counterpoint of her breath reminded him of something he forgotten about her. Fellatio was something she did with incredible skill, drawing forth his orgasm before he was ready to have it over. She lay back against the far end of the lounger and, from under her sooty lashes, watched him recover. Still shaking, he lifted the foot she'd laid across his knees and kissed the ankle. Knowing there would be no possible way he'd manage a third time, Michael intended to satisfy her as she had him. She shook her head. "Let's shower. Lexi and Andie could wander in anytime." He hadn't thought of that, though the room was obviously part of a suite. A shower sounded like fun, and his imagination pictured her sudsy and slippery−wet with great success and anticipation. The shower relaxed him, her hands slick with soap kneaded deeply into muscles and joints. Finally, Kate let him wash her. She shivered despite the hot water as his fingers slid between her thighs. Michael raised her hands to hold the shower fixture. "Don't fall," he cautioned before kissing his way down her steamy flesh. Despite his precaution, she did eventually join him on the porcelain, her knees unable to support her any longer. Michael pulled her into his lap, and they nestled silently with the water pooling and draining under them. They managed to fall into the bed before attempting the next course, which ended in a spate of giggles as they both conceded exhaustion. Still, to have her curled in his arms felt deeply satisfying. At some point fatigue overcame him. He partially awoke as the red dawn poured in the window. He gathered Katie back into his arms and fell back asleep. Her side of the bed was empty when Michael woke up again. He could hear voices in the next room. Pulling on the new jeans, he stumbled into the parlor. Lexi sat on the little sofa, about where Michael had been sitting last night when Kate... The thought froze in his head as Lexi looked at him smirking. Michael's 'hi' came out as a croak. "Rough night, sport?" Lexi asked, and then he raised his voice and called over his shoulder toward the other bedroom. "Thirty seconds." A sip of flat wine cleared the frog, but the sight of his and Kate's clothes folded neatly on the bar prevented another attempt at a greeting. "Time's up," Lexi said. He sighed and rocked to his feet. Just then a young man, whom Michael suddenly recognized as the bouncer from the nightclub, yanked open the bedroom door. "Sorry, Lex. She wouldn't let me go." He was frantically trying to right his tangled shirt. Lexi hitched his chin toward the door. "Don't forget your shoes," Andie said, strolling into the room completely naked. She saw Michael, grinned, and cocked her hip at him. "Peter likes my tattoo." Michael did, too. The young man blushed and grabbed the shoes from her hand, dodging her half−hearted attempt to hug him. He planted a quick smooch on her cheek and as Lex took a step in his direction, darted out the door. "Andie. Rational creatures clothe themselves." "Hmm?" she murmured. 149

"Go get ready for breakfast." Michael's stomach growled, and Lexi laughed. "You too, sport." "Where's Kate?" "On a train to Brussels. You're stuck with me 'til sixish." Breakfast was cheese, hard−boiled eggs, bread, and orange juice at an outdoor cafe in a quiet greenery−filled alley. Andie took her bread to the railing of the tiny canal and fed the ducks. Lexi yawned and stretched and yawned again. He sat dozing in the dappled sunlight, slipping lower and lower in the chair. Michael took his cup of tea over to the small kiosk holding a computer. "Internet?" he asked the proprietor. She nodded and showed him the list of access numbers. He dialed up and, after waiting for the static−filled connection tones, typed in the mail−server's address, entered his password and checked his email. Mostly spam, he needed to upgrade his filter. He dashed off a quick note to Kevin, his kids, and his mother letting them know he'd dashed off to Europe on a whim. That should startle them, he thought, pushing send. Andie's soft voice in his ear surprised him. "What are you doing?" "Internet. Checking my email." The look on her face was of utter puzzlement, so he showed her a couple of pretty web pages. She met his glance with sheer delight. "Ah! C'est extraordinaire!" She hugged him. "Do more." She called to Lexi, "Lexi. Look at this. Look at what Michael can do." Lexi's propped head didn't move from his hand. Michael laughed. "Not me, sweetheart. Anyone. You." The incredulous expression on her face inspired him to act. He stood and motioned to the chair. She sat down carefully. He pointed out the basic buttons and had her access an easy search engine. "Just like Neo," she whispered. "Who is Neo?" he asked, which sent her into an ecstatic review of her favorite movie. "Type in the name," he said. She typed in the movie title as a search and wound up with thousands of hits. He told her how to narrow her search parameters and Andie caught on quickly. She squealed as a picture of the actors downloaded to the screen. Lexi woke with a start. "Look, look. I did this." Her smile was as contagious as a ten−year old's. Lexi rubbed his eyes and came to look over her shoulder. She switched pages and devoured each new piece of information. Little ahs and ohs punctuated her discoveries. Michael, grinning his enjoyment of her enthusiasm, looked over at Lexi and was surprised to see unshed tears in the man's eyes. "That is truly marvelous, ma petite." He kissed her cheek. "Can we buy this?" she asked. Lexi looked at Michael for the answer. "Not this one, but one like it. Maybe a laptop so you can carry it on the plane with you." Andie's face glowed with excitement. "Now?" Lexi moaned. "I need sleep. We will shop, later" "You promised I could see the movie today." Michael had no doubt to which movie she referred. He hadn't seen it, but the advertisements had been everywhere. "I could take her, and then shopping for a computer. You could sleep for a couple hours and be ready for nightshift." Lexi snorted. "Please," Andie begged, her hands lifted together as if praying. "I will listen and behave. I will come back with a computer and when Michael says I must." Her guardian looked from her to Michael then back. He motioned to Michael and, when they were a few steps away, said, "I don't think you've thought this through." "We'll go to the movie. I'll bribe her to be good with a computer." He shrugged. "If all else fails I'll call you at the hotel. Will the phone wake you up?" Lexi nodded. Rubbing his reddened eyes, he said, "I know I'll regret this, but if we go back to the hotel Andie will escape and I'll have a hell of a time finding her if she doesn't want found." He pulled a square of plastic out his wallet. "This is her credit card. Don't let her buy anything with a motor unless she can carry it." He smiled, weariness plain. 150

Michael grinned, thinking of the huge undulating dildo Andie had admired in one of the porn shops the night before. "A movie and her computer, then we'll come back." Lexi watched them leave, the worried expression on his face unchanged. Michael thought Lexi's qualms misplaced until several hours later. Andie had behaved, for the most part. The movie was entertaining −− though Michael didn't understand Andie's enchantment. She leaned on the seat in front of her and lip−synced the dialogue. In the electronics store, she had patiently examined each model before deciding on the one Michael recommended. She carried the package as if she were a girl−child with a new doll and gushed about what things she would seek on the web. An ice cream stand distracted her. She begged so prettily, Michael couldn't say no. The park across the street had long, sunny benches, and they sat on the closest to eat their ice cream. Andie talked about the laptop, asking questions and absorbing the answers. She leafed through the owner's guide and pointed out functions to Michael that he'd never bothered to learn to use, but that he suspected she would. Finishing her cone, Andie set her purchase aside and straddled Michael's lap in one fluid and unexpected movement. She kissed him, deeply and thoroughly, before leaning back slightly. "Thank−you. For the movie and the computer and the Internet." Yep, that would be him. Like Al Gore, he had created the whole concept. "No, silly. Thank−you for showing them to me." He hadn't said a word. Numbness trickled into his hands and feet. A slightly out of breath feeling constricted his lungs. Andie remained silent looking at him curiously. "What?" "If you had been Neo, would you choose the blue pill or the red pill?" She tilted her head and looked at the sky. A welcome change of topic, a simple question and the numbness receded. "That's easy. The red, of course." Any other choice would be denying the truth for a comfortable fantasy −− as well as ending the movie a whole lot sooner. Andie tossed her head then kissed his neck, ignoring the little push that was his hint for her to vacate his lap. Her kisses weren't bad, but those little bites drove him crazy. She whispered softly, "Then why do you choose the blue pill in real life, Michael?" The numbness hadn't retreated −− only regrouped. Cold spread rapidly to his lungs and brain as well as his arms and legs. "What do you mean?" He heard himself ask, but he knew... God, he knew. "You pretend you have never met me −− or Lexi. You pretend not to notice when Kate and I feed from you. You act as if you don't know what you..." Michael stood and Andie slipped from his lap into a crouch, before regaining her balance. "You never notice our hunger or our teeth or our sending." She hadn't missed a beat in her tumble from his lap. "Shh!" he commanded. "Go back to the hotel, Miranda. Val has a surprise for you." Then, without looking at her again, he ran from the park. Winter 2004 Michael didn't remember coming home, but he knew that he had. The Baltimore police had found him at the airport, with a stolen credit card and only a passport for identification, ranting about vampires and had, unsurprisingly, taken him to the nearest hospital with a mental facility. He remembered something else. Kate and Val had come for him and somehow had sealed or stolen his chart and record. A private nurse had cared for him until he came out of the fugue. He had been given the impression that he'd had a bad case of pneumonia. The bizarre dreams had been blamed on his sometimes−critical fever. A few months later, a bank had recommended his project to the Ruiz Group and he and Anne had begun 151

their long affair. Kate, with her hair cut short and dyed a neutral color and a shitload of money, had dived into his life, again.

Which still didn't explain why Katie wanted an age−antidote. Perhaps she hadn't known what he would develop, only the benefits for her species? Probing his memories for clues yielded nothing. There were still blank spots but he could feel those barriers melting like a sugar cube castle left out in the rain. He leaned back in the chair, exploring these new vistas, wondering if the new perspective would have altered his past? Poor Liz. Being married to him had to be like biting into bread laced with B−Bs. He had liked her, enjoyed her, but had stopped loving her long before Casey had interfered. Why had he married her? He had forgotten the reason, but had blamed her anyway. How desperate she must have been to hold on and she had succeeded. The kids had kept him home; all the good times had been with and for Kyle and Kim. Katie's confession of his sterility sliced through his guts, exactly the same way the first time and with the same decision. Not his, like hell. He'd been there for their births, birthdays, graduations, and all the accomplishments between. In everyway fatherhood meant anything he was their father. Too many other holes in his memories existed, though he could tell that they would eventually resurface. Maybe already had but, with the overwhelming information and input the antidote had started, the more suppressed ones were going to take a little contemplation. He needed time. Would the viraran give him any? He didn't think so. 2 AM . Michael squared the last pages of the printout and used the three hole punch on the inside gutter edge. The pages filled the second binder. The report was so close to ready. The FDA would have approved limited human trials quickly with this compelling data. Fast−tracking geriatric drugs had become a priority in the last presidential administration. Geriatric research had become vogue when the HIV−vaccine had finally been developed. Old age. Inevitable. The next major push was on for the frontiers of medical science. Medicare wanted to raise the coverage age, again. Every HMO, health insurance company and employer would embrace any drug that promised health and postponed the expensive infirmities of aging. Michael thought about his mother and aunt. They had aged gracefully but how would this antidote impact their lives? First, the average age of the population would increase. The retirement age would have to be raised to prevent the overload on pension plans and the rocky Social Security System. The population of the world would increase dramatically, causing the usual pressures of over−population. Would mankind rise to the challenge or die in the toxic wastes of a world overcome by the demands of a selfish me−first society? More likely than an egalitarian worldwide distribution of the antidote would be that only the elite would benefit. Some criteria would be established and the resultant dissatisfaction would cause social unrest and anarchy. Governments would topple. Val's words echoed like a prophecy. 'Humans will eventually gain the universe out there, but will never expand the one within.' Michael wasn't certain how the age−antidote would change the world but until he was, the viraran would not control it. Neither could humans. A few under−the−counter workstation lights illuminated the lab. Michael found Maureen sitting at a computer working on the same report he had just printed. "No date?" he asked. More than once he'd been tempted to ask her out. Only the thought that she was his daughter's age had restrained him. Plus she was so damn smart, intimidating in her sharp and agile mind. He could easily admit her computer skills were comparable to his, and when he was really honest admit hers surpassed his. She jumped at the sound of his voice, the light brown ponytail bobbing. 152

"Michael! Hi! What?" she said. "Oh! No. No date. I wanted to finish the FDA proposal before I take vacation." "That's right, you're going home to..." "Wyoming." He nodded. He wished it had been anyone but her but here she was. He pulled the gun out of his jacket pocket. Her eyes widened and she glanced from his face to the gun and back. "I want you to delete the following files." Maureen turned without a sound to the keyboard and as he named a file, found and deleted it. "Yes, Mr. Beiler," she said each time he named another file. He ordered her to empty the network deleted file folder as well as this one's. "Where are the mice? And the monkeys?" he asked. She stood without a word and led the way through the numerous locked gates to the animal research labs. PETA activists still attempted break−ins to 'rescue' the experimental animals in defiance of the Supreme Court decision that such testing was neither cruel nor unjustified. Plexiglas separated each group of animals into discrete cells. "Gas 'em," Michael ordered. "Yes, Mr. Beiler." She set the controls and watched the dials until the proper concentration was reached. They waited, watching the animals curl into fetal positions and slowly stop breathing. Tears streamed down the girl's cheeks. "Where's the incinerator?" he asked. Michael held the gun as the tech gently lifted the mice and then the monkeys into metal basins on a trolley. One by one she slipped the bodies, each representing thousands of dollars, into the highly efficient gas incinerator. "Do it." "Yes. Mr. Beiler." Maureen flipped the switch, starting the cycle that would reduce the specimens to ash. "You haven't asked me why," he said. Her quiet compliance worried him. Had he missed something? Did she know what? She shrugged. "My father told me that being polite to a man holding a gun hurts less than a bullet." "Good advice," Michael couldn't help but smile. The wise advice also explained why 'Michael' had become 'Mr. Beiler'. Her brilliantly green eyes glanced up at him. "Why?" "I'm not convinced this antidote is a boon. However, my partners may not agree. I know things about them... Well, I'm not certain of their motives." He wasn't about to start ranting about vampires to this coolly intellectual woman. "Where do they keep the cell cultures?" She winced. "You hoped I had thought of those?" She nodded and the cell cultures followed the animals into the incinerator. The back−up mCD's went into the microwave and nuked until the metal arced with electric fire. "I hope I've thought of everything." She murmured something. He half heard a few words, and grabbed her arm to swing her around to face him. "What did you say?" A stubborn and defiant expression crossed her face. He held the gun in her line of sight. "I said... Aunt Katie is going to be so pissed. Have you thought of that?" Her words were an unexpected fist to his stomach. He sat on a lab stool and stared at her. The gun slipped in his suddenly sweaty hand and he wiped his palms on his pants. "Are you Jill's daughter, or Mark's?" he finally asked. She looked puzzled. "Come on." He lifted the gun. She snorted. He lowered the gun, his bluff called. 153

"Daddy always said you weren't the violent type, or he never would have let me work with you." "Daddy? Val?" Michael didn't need her nod. Her face was Val's though her coloring was fairer. She frowned. "I think they gave up on you. So I was sent to..." "Seduce me?" he asked. "No, you're too old for me." She laughed, which hurt more than the answer. "I came to learn from you." Plan B. Nicole had said something about Kate's planning. There was always another plan. Nothing terribly complicated but what his lover lacked in complexity she made up with sheer volume. Thinking of Kate made his head hurt. Kate, Casey, Kathy. It hadn't mattered which of her had been the truth −− he loved her. At the moment, love didn't matter, trust did. Michael didn't trust her. "She knew you'd find the answer." She'd looked within him when he was just ten and seen what? Maureen sighed. "She was wrong though." "She was?" Maureen nodded. "You didn't. Kevin did. The answer was in you, though." "In me?" "You don't know?" Feeling like a parrot he said, "Know? Know what?" "The antidote came from your blood. Your DNA held the secret. Maybe that's what Aunt Katie saw." The utter beautiful irony struck him and he started laughing. Poor Katie. Poor him. She had fixated on him as some kind of savior to her species, expecting him to find the viraran solution. He hadn't found the answer... He was the answer. In some fantastically amazingly unlikely roll of the genetic dice the singular combination of amino acids had formed him. If humans aged more slowly then viraran could hide more easily. Not complicated but it would be effective. Could have been, but he had the keys in his pocket now. So the antidote was good for viraran. Was it good for humans? Thought of the antidote reminded him of the last item on his list. "Where is the supply of antidote kept?" Maureen's jaw snapped shut. "Don't," she said. "We both know a sample might be used to replicate more." Tears formed and spilled. Hybrids could cry like humans. "You are wrong about the viraran, Michael." "You don't have any idea what they are really like." Her eyes flashed with a withering anger. "NO! You have no idea. I grew up with them. I know. You have some sexual pseudo−love affair with Aunt Katie and think you can extrapolate from your limited experience." "They are sexual." "No more so than humans. They feel a deeper love than humans do. Their love never changes... Shakespeare said 'Swear not by the inconstant moon,' −− that defines the strength of human love. Conditions and expectations. Viraran have neither. Only love. Period. I can never disappoint my father, because all he wants from me is my love." Michael sneered. "God, you are a Freudian poster−child. There is nothing sexual between my father and I." "He has never completed the circle with you?" "The kiss is only about sex if you want it to be. Yes, we complete the circle −− as chaste as your relationship with your daughter. Notice, please, I assume you exercise only a father's love for your children, too." "I know your father and, admittedly, he is different. I... like Val. I know more..." "Met, not know. I haven't simply met viraran −− I know them. Lucien and Janessa, my father and Aunt Kate, and her children. Andie." "Viraran don't love like humans do. Your father has another family..." She shook her head so hard the tip of her ponytail whipped her nose. "Kate has two sets of twins, Val has another wife to care for the second pair." 154

"My father has one wife." She shook her forefinger in his face. "My mother. She has raised and will raise all Aunt Katie's babies." "That's not the way they do things." "Humans live longer now. My mother will raise Harley and Savannah, and Trey and Polly, and any others Aunt Katie may have." "Viraran have an aversion to each other." "Daddy says phobias can be cured by conditioning. Andie and both sets of twins have no aversion to other viraran." Val had found a way to change a basic viraran trait. It must have been hell on earth for him to overcome his own repugnance enough to let his children not sense it. "In every way we can be, we are a normal family. Mavis gets pissy when I borrow her clothes; we both find ways to trick Andie into asking Daddy for more allowance. The babies get on my nerves and all us older children got mad when Mom made us baby−sit and didn't pay us. We also camped and had picnics and went places. God, we are the Cleavers." "You go to Disney, and out for ice cream," he said. Val had everything Michael had ever wanted. He snorted. "The adrenaline junkie grew up." "Nah, he still gets off on danger. He drives too fast and takes us hang−gliding and rock−climbing. He parachutes and moto−crosses. He drives Mom crazy with worry, but he kisses her breathless and she doesn't fuss." Michael understood Maureen's sudden willingness to argue with him. "You were going to take a dose of the antidote home to give to your mother. That's why you are trying to change my mind, now, telling me how wonderful she is. Do you think I care about her? Where is the supply?" Maureen's eyes flicked once, enough to let Michael know which of the huge bank of refrigerators held the samples. He strode to the door and found the Styrofoam tray filled with 1cc vials. Her expression would have stopped any man in his tracks. She was watching her mother die. Michael pulled one from the tray and tossed the vial to her. "Give it to your father... Or give it to Kate. Save your mother, or let Kate save the viraran." "What are you going to do with the rest?" Michael thought a minute. "I have a mother, too. Beyond that? I honestly don't know. Hide it until I do." He found a roll of duct−tape and strapped Maureen to a metal desk−chair, feeling the need to hurry. The whole deconstruction had taken far too long. "You're wrong." "Yeah, pretty often I am. What about this time?" he asked. Maureen shook her head. "I could give the antidote to Daddy or Aunt Katie −− the result would be the same." "Oh?" "Aunt Kate would think harder but she'd still give the antidote to my mother, because she loves my father." Michael wasn't certain if Maureen meant that Kate loved Val and would want to please him, or if Kate would give the antidote to −− Kelly, the name came to him −− because Kelly loved Val. He placed the duct−tape strip around her ankle. "Are you sure you want to test that theory?" His words triggered a powerful response, as the final question was answered. Spring 2003 His apartment smelled musty. The message machine flashed sullenly from the table next to the door. Michael tossed the pile of mail next to it. He heard the metallic clack as the deadbolt was turned. "I was wondering when you would turn up," he said, realizing that he had been expecting him. Val chuckled. "You aren't completely stupid, sport." "Funny that you come running to help her with all her little crises. Don't you think?" Michael said. 155

In the mocking tone he remembered so well, Val replied, "Funny that you seem to be the source of all her crises. Don't you think?" Michael hadn't remembered that. "Have a seat," Val said, pointing to the sofa. A pair of beers sat on the coffee table. Venom spiked. Michael hesitated a breath too long and Val grabbed the back of his neck and pushed him in the right direction. "The easy way or the hard way, I really don't care." Michael sat. "Yeah, you do." The viraran shrugged. "Don't push the issue. You may be surprised." Val sat on the table facing him and handed him a beer. "Have a drink." "What's in it?" Michael asked. Val was on his feet and in his face before the words were out. "Drink the fucking beer," he said slowly, pronouncing every word clearly as if speaking to an imbecile. "Or what?" Michael refused to back down. He remembered enough to know Val enjoyed confrontation. Val laughed and sat back down. "Or I'll kiss you and then make you drink the beer." He held the bottle out and Michael took it. The venom radiated outward through the membranes of his mouth and throat and stomach. The soporific effects were immediate. The calm spread like −− blood on a viraran's lips. Michael chuckled at the analogy. Val smiled. "There. Now we can talk." Michael laughed, though he didn't think anything was particularly funny. "It's you. You make me forget." "Yeah. I discovered at Placid, that you have a strong reaction to my venom." "The cop." Val nodded. "Venom, beer, and pot make you very open to suggestion. You really forgot. I didn't expect it." "You don't mind using it." "Forgetting stuff that makes you dangerous is better than being dead." Michael nodded. Val handed him the other beer. The second dose had a deeper reaction. The first beer had anesthetized his nerves and fears; the second muffled even the thought of fear or anxiety. Val sat beside him and lighted the little pipe. Grinning, Michael said, "I haven't touched this shit since college." He inhaled, the muffling peeled away. If his mind had been a foggy snow bank, it was now a pristine frozen lake. "Not true, but not relevant." Val took the pipe away. "How do you feel?" "Clear. Sharp." He shivered. "Cold." Val put an arm over his shoulder. "Lean on me." Michael made a face. Val passed the pipe back. Michael leaned close. Viraran were so warm. The warmth made him drowsy and he thought about napping. "Why do I forget?" "Are you anxious to forget this time?" Michael shrugged. "No. Yes." A flash of anger illuminated his mind. "Why did you let her?" He thought of the faces of the fraternity brothers as he continued to date Liz. "I didn't know anything about Kate's plan until you came back to her apartment looking for Liz." A fuzzy memory started. "You said something important. About revenge." Val groaned. "Damn. I hope you never remember to tell Katie. I was joking." "You said..." He could almost hear Val's drawling sarcastic voice make the joke. Oh God! A joke. "I said, right before you passed out, that the best revenge for Katie's actions would be to marry Liz. I knew you were suggestible, but I never thought you'd do something you didn't really want to do." "I wanted to hurt Kate more than I didn't love Liz." "Yeah, that's what I thought." A silence settled around them. Val sighed. "I wish you had married Nicole. You would have been much happier." "So would have Kate," Michael pointed out. "Not really. You see, she believed in the fairytale but I got the happily−ever−after." "You're happy?" "Ecstatically." Michael twisted his head to see Val's face, to judge whether he was joking or serious, and suddenly 156

realized that he was lying against the viraran's chest like a lover. He struggled to sit up, but Val drew him back. "Shh. I promised, remember?" "You promised not to kiss me when I'm sober with other people's blood on your lips." "Well, I made another promise too. I keep my word, even if you don't remember." "I want to forget, don't I?" Val sighed. "Damn. We've come to that already." He reached over to the table and picked up an envelope. He wrapped his arms around Michael and nuzzled his neck before taking the shortest of bites. The venom burned a hole in his mind, like a July 4th sparkler. "Pictures," Michael said. Not necessarily aloud but talking really didn't matter, he knew. "Look and learn, sport. Stuff you don't want to know." Polaroids. The ones he suspected all along. He and Katie captured in living color. Good pictures, if not the kind found in family albums. There were pictures of Katie and Val taken by him, no intercourse but that left a lot of room for improvisation. Kate had shot the last ones. Of him and Val. Michael closed his eyes. "You wanna know the worst part?" No, but he knew Val would tell him. "You invited me." '?' Hurt and rage. Val should have known. "Hell, Michael. I didn't know you. You were drunk. I was high. We both were smitten with Katie's venom. I had problems in my real life." '?' "Irrelevant. I screwed up. When I realized how much you'd hate the idea, and hate me for it, I swore never to touch you again... Unless you were sober when you asked." Michael laughed. Val should have been a politician. He built loopholes into every promise. "Well," he drawled, sounding no different than twenty years ago. "Humans change their minds all the time." "Viraran never change." Michael shook his head. Val whispered in his ear, "Yes, we do. Inside not out." He nuzzled again and bit, longer. "Thanks for not kissing me. That's totally disgusting," Michael said when he could talk again. "Ah well, some theories are better left untested." Val laughed. Asshole, Michael thought with some hint of admiration. "Look closely at this picture." Val sighed when Michael refused. "Just look. I want you to see something." Michael looked. The picture was a snapshot of a nude pregnant woman with long silver−blond hair. She was standing before a window with her back to the camera, Hands stretched above her head. Bright sunlight created a Madonna−like nimbus around her, obscuring details but emphasizing the roundness of her belly and hips. "Kate." "Look again." The woman resembled Kate but not completely. "Kelly?" Michael could feel Val nod. Val held up one of the Polaroid's. "I fell in love with a human who looks like my twin. Kate did, too." The truth was he resembled Val more than Kelly resembled Kate. "So she loves me cuz I look like you?" "No coincidence. Rebecca looked like Janessa, but Sophie didn't." He sighed. Val had a great sigh. Michael wondered if he practiced. "Rebecca was Irish. She could really sound mournful." Val sat quiet a moment, relighting his pipe and holding it for Michael. Insisting. "How different we would be if she hadn't died. She was a cast−iron bitch. Just like Kelly. Kate and I would have never stepped out of line with her." "I thought you loved Sophie?" "I did, but she was a little Neapolitan whore until Lucien needed a woman to foster us quickly. He loved Rebecca." 157

"He didn't love Sophie?" "Eventually. She was very lovable, like my cousins. She had no clue how to deal with viraran children, so she took us to church." "Katie said viraran don't have souls." Val humphed. "Actually we do. We aren't children of your god, though. Neither are our hybrids." "Who says?" "The son of your god." Val smiled at the incredulous expression on Michael's face. "Suffer not a witch to live. The original word was virar. Some monk screwed up. Thousands of women were tortured because of a typo −− not that you humans need much of a reason to be cruel to each other." "Jill and Nicole are human." "Yeah and, if they renounce their family and nature, Christ said hybrids could enter his father's kingdom... Maybe." "Maybe?" "No guarantees. No salvation for viraran, though. Unless there is another heaven for genetic constructs, nothing waits for us in that gentle night... Nothing good, anyway." "How do you live with that?" Michael couldn't imagine the loneliness, the emptiness of death without even a hope for an afterlife. "By living." Val shrugged. "We enjoy living and fill our lives with heaven on earth." "Heaven on earth?" Val spoke very slowly, "Love, sport. Not sex −− though lots of that is nice, too −− plain old give−til−it−hurts love." "Kate loves me." "Uh−huh." "She happens to spend the day at the Franklin Institute and falls in love with a ten−year old?" Michael didn't buy the hypothesis, and not believing made him nervous. Val bit him again and the anxiety ebbed. "Katie went there looking for someone. We lost some cousins during the flu that killed Rebecca." Michael nodded. "She had gone to Philly to meet a descendant of the younger sister, Sarah." "Fate intervened and she met me instead." Val fed again, a little longer. The venom trickled against gravity to reach his brain. "Not instead. You were the person she went to meet." The truth was so obvious but so unexpected. Bands contracted across his chest, tighter than Val's arms ever had. "Michael, son of Martha, daughter of Sarah, daughter of Lucille, daughter of Rebecca and Lucien Zurin. We're cousins." Unable to speak, Michael listened. "Fourth generation, last one on this side. Liz cheated and Laura gave up." His sister had adopted children after years of fruitless infertility testing. "We're like mules?" Warm hands wiped his face. Tears? Michael hadn't realized he was crying. "Yes, sterility is common. Otherwise, all you humans would be hybrids and Kate wouldn't need a viraran solution." Michael pictured a world of Jills, Nicoles and Marks −− and reluctantly added himself and Laura. "Oh my God!" "Sorry, Michael. He's not yours either." The comment slammed the lid on his questions. Not damned, no heaven −− only this life −− no other chance to right the wrongs or make retribution for sins. "Kinda like being a charter member of the Ku Klux Klan, and then finding out your great−grandfather was a black man." As usual Val's analogy was particularly apt. Did the viraran's voice echo his amusement or sympathy? Michael didn't care. The last thing he remembered was Val's teeth, and then the soft whisper, "Maybe you do want to forget, 158

sport." Flash−bang. Winter 2004 "Are you okay?" Maureen's question cut through the shock. He certainly didn't feel okay, but didn't want to explain anything to her. "We're soulless." Her eyes narrowed, ready to debate. "No. Nature abhors a vacuum. Something happens to our souls, if not a Christian heaven, then something else." He glanced at his watch. 3 AM. Time to go. "You're wrong about them. Think about what I've said," she whispered. "I hope you're right. I will." Two pronged conversations. His laptop, a cooler filled with a terrible treasure, and his car. Oh, and a gun. Not a great start, but a completely fresh one. The thought sustained him through the miles.

Autumn 2005 Forking the last bite of fried green tomato and ham into his mouth, Michael glanced into the large mirror behind the bar. No doubt about it, the youngish−looking man with the Case cap was still watching him. Light brown hair, green eyes, and the oh−so−familiar wide generous mouth with smile−shaped lips, he watched Michael with the combination of disdain and curiosity so characteristic of their kind. "Like 'em?" the barman asked, whisking away the empty plate. Michael patted his stomach and smiled. The ubiquitous southern habit of batter−frying every sort of vegetable had been unexpectedly delicious in this instance. "'Nother beer?" he said, already filling a new frosted mug. "Thanks." Michael dug a ten and a couple of ones from the front pocket of his jeans. The counterman took the ten and a sole one, and handed back a handful of coins. Two beers and an ample meal for ten dollars and change. Not bad, not that it mattered. Work could be found everywhere for someone not minding physical labor or hand−numbing data processing. He'd do either and had survived both. Sipping the fresh foamy beer, he swiveled the stool a quarter−turn. At the far end of the tavern, two couples gyrated to an old Shania Twain song blaring from several banks of integrated quad speakers. The collector's item jukebox had been converted to play CD's but retained the neon tubing and colorful appeal of his youth. He remembered pumping quarters to hear classics of bubblegum rock by the Cassidys, the Osmonds, and the Jacksons on similar machines. The women wore tight, hip−hugging jeans with long−sleeved blouses cropped at midriff length. Sequins and bangles, earrings and bracelets reflected the Wurlitzer's glow, the effect similar to the mirrored disco balls that graced every dance floor of his early adulthood, now missing in favor of the wild, music−generated oscillations of laser light. The men showed the usual disregard to style, preferring the comfort of flannel shirts with their jeans of darkest indigo. The razor−edge creases of the four pairs of Levi's would pass the toughest military sergeant's muster. The tromping heels of the compulsory boots provided the beat if anyone had missed the heavy bass of the upbeat song. Michael watched the intricate choreography, appreciating the practice which had gone into preparation for a Friday night date at a local dive. A quarter−turn more of the mushroom−like stool swung the pool table into view. The multicolored shade of the table's chandelier advertised a popular beer, competing with the various brands promoted by the lighted icons, Nascar posters, and NFL schedules which adorned the walls. Four youths played a partnered game on the wide green expanse, attention periodically diverted by a college basketball game on the television bracketed to the ceiling. Another swivel aligned him with the restroom doors, the requisite signs labeling each with folksy fun. 159

Does and Bucks, a mounted head hung beside each. A lacy bra dangled from the antlers of the buck and a cigarette protruded from the plasticized lips of the doe. Some globule of black humor slipped from the tight control he usually kept over such things. Let them have their lives, simple or grand, each as precious and meaningful as his own. Perhaps more so, for in their innocence the small games of life were played, unlike his avoidance of belonging. Michael allowed his eyes to wander toward the man in the ball cap. He caught the flash as the other's eyes dropped away avoiding his. The long lashes, so envied by woman everywhere, shielded the green gaze, much as the cap's bill camouflaged the handsome face. He dressed the part of a good ol' boy well, flannel and blue jeans, boots and the looped belt chain attached to a wallet stuffed in his back pocket. A startlingly white tee shirt peeked out from the collar of the buffalo plaid flannel. He looked so at ease in this crowd of strangers and, if Michael hadn't known better, would have blended right in. The unmistakable slither of send − tracing up his backbone − betrayed them every time. With a puzzled glance, the man looked up. Michael wondered fleetingly what emotion the other had encountered or if the mental maze rebuffed even the abilities of a powerful empath like... No names, he reminded himself. Names were like hoisting flags above the bulwark of his painstakingly constructed labyrinth, drawing attention to things hidden inside. Things, which exposed, would get him dead. Their kind were incapable of solving mysteries, even tiny ones like a simple mouse run. The analogy amused him. Michael let a single mouse of a notion free to negotiate the maze. At some point, the creature would pop out of the trail's end and become visible to someone standing vigil over his mind. Michael left the thought to its own device and concentrated on his present precarious situation. Leaving, he'd be followed, conspicuous in an abrupt departure. Staying would mean one of two things: drinking more beer, a definitely dangerous behavior, or; nursing the one he had until his spectator grew inattentive. A third alternative occurred to him, grabbing the bull by the horns − not outright, but finessing the critter. Slipping from the stool, Michael wandered toward the dartboard, passing close by the fellow in the cap. "Gotta problem?" Michael asked, stopping beside the young man. The other's startled expression would have entertained him in other circumstances. "Uh, no." "Then why are you staring?" Michael perched in the chair across from the watcher. "Your face looks familiar, I was tryin' to place you," the man said. Michael waited, sipping his beer. "You remind me of a guy on FOX. You know − 'Have You Seen This Face' − where they try to find people." "What guy?" Michael asked. A good cover story. Well, no one said their kind were stupid. "The guy in that lab accident, chemical spill." "When did this happen?" "Six, eight months ago." More like ten, but time flies when one is being hunted. Another good cover story. "What kind of chemical?" "Something weird, makes him paranoid and dangerous. But he was an old guy. You're too young," he continued. "Sorry to bother you." The young man extended his hand. "Allan Mills." Reluctantly, Michael shook it. "Mike Stoltz." He resisted the urge to wipe his hand. Allan motioned, indicating refills. "I owe ya one." The waitress acknowledged with a nod. Unexpected offer, but he should have anticipated it. Drunks are easier to read with their defenses befuddled by the effects of alcohol. "So what brings you to Hazard? You don't talk like a local." "Neither do you," Michael pointed out. "I drive truck. I overnight here cuz the food's good and cheap and the motel's clean." Michael had stayed another night for the same reasons. Had the thought slipped out or had the reasons 160

been obvious? "I'm just passing through," Michael said. "Where's home?" Michael shook his head. "Gave up on that. A while back, I realized I didn't like my life anymore, playing the game but hating it. I decided to look around for something else." "Want work?" Allan pulled out his wallet and located a card, which he held out to Michael. "My twin runs a temp agency. She needs workers." The printing on the cards ran to three lines. A familiar name, an 800 number and an e−mail address. "No street address?" "Nah, Internet. Katrina's really good." Allan smiled a bit sheepishly. "If you mention my name when you call, I'll get a referral fee." Michael tucked the card in his own wallet. "If I call, I'll do that." The waitress brought the beers, taking away the empties and payment. They sat in a companionable quiet; observing the basketball game, commenting on the state of the economy (pretty good), and the state of the highway system (really bad). Allan mentioned snow in the mountains to the north and the fog he'd encountered on his trek. They always could provide a description which painted the vista as clearly as if he'd been the beholder. The bells on the door jangled and a trio of young women entered. One, a blonde with a fancy French braid plaited down her back, gave Allan an interested double take. "Your girl?" Michael asked, playing his part, knowing the other's predilection for blondes. "No." Allan grinned. "Not yet. Maybe later." He caught the bartender's attention and pointed to the trio, now hovering at the other end of the counter. "On me," he mouthed. The savvy fellow nodded his understanding, served drinks to the ladies and, refusing their money, pointed to Allan and Michael. The blonde raised her glass and smiled in their direction. The waitress delivered two beers and collected payment for the extra drinks. Michael watched the ancient ritual, aware of the young man's advantage in the game. How easy to be the perfect hunter, if one knew exactly what bait the quarry wanted. "Married?" Allan asked. "Divorced. You?" Michael replied. Allan shook his head. "Not exactly." Michael deliberately shut the lid on any thoughts about what the 'not exactly' meant. He shook his head. "What?" Allan asked, playing a friendly game of eyeball tag with the pretty woman. "Nothing. Just remembering my glory days. Lots more to worry about these days." "Worry? Not me. Stress'll kill ya as quick as disease. I've had the HIV vaccine and PanHep." A blatant lie. Allan would have no use for them. Michael stuck around long enough to be a partner in a mating dance disguised as a pool game. The ballet developed into a chase as Allan said and did the right things to intrigue and entangle the blonde's affections. Looking back as he collected his jacket from the row of hooks near the door, Michael could see Allan embracing the girl from behind, nuzzling her ear and bared shoulder. At one time the slick trick would have gone unnoticed by him, but the tiny trickle of blood on the supple neck snared his attention before Allan's tongue could wipe it away. Capture complete. Zippering the heavy jacket gave him some comfort. The weight of the handgun hidden in the lining felt like having a friend nearby in the worst part of a monster movie. All traces of daylight had been smudged from the sky. The high blowing clouds speckled the moonlight with shadows and fleeting illusions of movement. Staring into the darkness provided no answers. Any number of possible ambush sites between the bar and the motel. Paranoid? Maybe. But even paranoids have real enemies. The clarity of his memory had become so different since the antidote. Instead of bare bones and foggy impressions, the past took on a sepia−toned concrete reality. But were these memories any more accurate than the venom−induced ones? Truth could be slippery, based on perceptions instead of facts. Truth: hers and his. Hers stained with that which passed as her affection; his crayoned with the sticky wax of abject fear. 161

Standing inside the pitch−blackness of his room, Michael waited until he saw Val − Allan − and his conquest depart in an expensive red sports car. Not a truck − big surprise. Michael dozed off, his exhaustion more complete than his anxiety. He dreamt of Katie, in a dress as bright as the sun, with her provocative lips the kiss−compelling viraran red. The sharp rap on the metal−core door catapulted him fully awake, to his feet and into a chest−crushing, sweat−soaked panic simultaneously. A second, fainter knock oriented him in the strange, dancing, shadow−light glow of the muted television. Grabbing his discarded flannel shirt, Michael wiped his face and neck. Breathing deeply, he regained a semblance of control. It could be only one person tapping at the door, one person who could have followed the scampering, imaginary white mouse freed earlier, luring the raptor. Michael said, "Coming." His hand shook, requiring a stern mental tongue−lashing to still the tremble. Think calm. Think labyrinth. Think closed boxes with no labels. Don't think. Inhale, exhale. Again. Keeping the chain in place, he cracked the door − knowing what he'd see made it no easier. "Oh, it's you." Michael kept his voice even and cool. Val − Allan, dammit − his lips an amazing red from a recent feed, posed there like some hunk in a porn movie, a six−pack in one hand, a flip−top hip bottle of Jack in the other. No doubt carrying some killer weed in one of his pockets, covering all the bases. "I thought you invited me." Keeping an old promise. "Did I pick up the wrong signal? Should I go?" Michael closed the door far enough to detach the chain, and then swung it wide, holding on tightly to quell the tremble, which had returned. "No, you read it right. Where's your blonde?" "Sleeping." Allan looked at Michael through the lashes of his averted eyes, gauging the emotionless face. He'd get nothing there, Michael vowed. Allan snapped open the whiskey with his thumb and took a long draw, then slid the bottle along his host's arm, to rest at the back of his shoulder. He gripped Michael's neck gently, the cold plastic an anchor. The visitor followed his hand, stepping into the room, kicking the door closed with his heel. With his lips and tongue tasting of whiskey and blood, Allan kissed Michael. Katie had been more wrong than right about the issues that had sent Michael reeling, searching for amnesia. It had never been about how he felt about Val, or making love to him. Val's experienced prowess made it easy to ignore some things. A good lover is a good lover is a good lover − and that which we call a rose, by any other name, would still have thorns. And the sharpest thorns weren't always the most obvious ones. Afterwards, standing in the bathroom checking for the telltale scratches on his neck and arms, Michael reconsidered the situation. Val hadn't used venom in an effort to reconnect, so Katie hadn't sent him. Only one possible purpose remained to explain this seduction. He'd been declared dangerous, fair game for the huntsmen among the viraran. The gun lay behind the Bible in the bedside stand. Michael had hidden the weapon, hoping not to use it, especially not on Val. The bathroom door creaked slowly open. Val stood in the square of light, partially dressed. "You've been in here a long time. Were you wishing I'd disappear?" Michael bent over the sink and rinsed his face. Val tossed him the towel. Drying his water and sweat dampened face, Michael met the sober green gaze in the mirror. The cool of the eyes matched the metallic chill of the gun being drawn along his quarry's spine. Val draped his elbows over Michael's shoulders, the weapon inches away, allowing him to recognize it as his own. "Now what do I do?" Val asked. Michael swallowed hard, trying to remember anything that might stop Val's course of action. Trying to forget this handsome, charming man, a friend and occasional lover, fulfilled his familial obligations as a cold−blooded killer. "You don't have to kill me, Val," Michael said, striving to not sound too desperate. 162

Val smirked. "So you do remember." "Everything. From the beginning until now. Not just viraran stuff − everything." Michael forced himself to ignore the gun. Val didn't need it to dispose of him, only to make his death a suicide for the human authorities. "How did you find me?" "GPS? Dental implants, radioactive dyes in your vitals, viraran talent? Take your pick, sport. One is as good as another." Val slid open the medicine chest, leaning hard against Michael to reach it. "Where is it?" "Where is what?" Val tapped the gun on Michael's temple. "Whatever it is you ran away to hide, whatever it is that bars your mind from me, whatever it is you erased from the lab's data banks. The age−antidote or whatever it really is. Where is it?" He couldn't see the answer, though the puzzle pieces lay all around him. "Until I figure out whether the antidote is a good thing or a bad one − for humans and viraran − I won't tell you." "Then I have to kill you." Val's eyes filled with tears, quickly drying before actually spilling. "Then you'll never know." Val nuzzled Michael's neck. With teeth sharp and slick, the viraran fed. Michael felt the burning in his blood moments before the venom hit his brain in a sensation like watching an acetylene torch explode. Flash−bang. Michael regained consciousness with a wave of nausea. He felt firm, warm hands support his head over the trashcan beside the bed. "Here." Val handed him a plastic courtesy cup with water to rinse his mouth and a tissue to wipe his chin. For some strange reason, Michael felt the need to apologize. "The bite never made me sick before. Maybe the antidote?" With a wry smile, Val suggested a more mundane answer. "Or fried green tomatoes, beer and half a bottle of Jack Daniels." "Do you always play nursemaid to people you plan to kill?" Michael asked, grimly amused by the viraran's solicitous care. Val laughed. "Come on, sport. Give me a Plan B. I'd really hate to make you dead." Plan B −− a reason not to kill him, the out for which Michael had hoped. He stood, thinking better on his feet. "The antidote will cause more problems than it cures. Katie wants a viraran solution. So do I. I can't find one if I'm dead," Michael argued, spreading his hands in entreaty. Indecision clouded Val's emerald eyes. "Come on, sport," Michael coaxed. A ghost of a smile appeared on Val's face at Michael's mockery. Seriously, Michael went on, "I can't believe Katie wants me dead. I would never hurt your family. I love Katie −− and you." Tears sprung again to Val's eyes. "You just can't bear to be near us." Michael hung his head at the truth of the remark. Val stood, stretching. "So that's your Plan B. Just let you go?" He shook his head, regretfully. "It's called faith and trust." Michael reached out and caressed Val's tousled hair. "Viraran have no God to merit theirs. Can't you put yours in me?" "I wish I could read you. I still can't, you know." Michael knew. "It's not so bad −− faith and trust," he said, feeling a shifting, a barometric change in the atmosphere. Val tucked the gun in his waistband, looking like some incredibly virile street−punk. "That I caught." he said, grinning. "I sent it FedEx." Val yanked on his white tee shirt. "Keep the card, Katie will wait for you until you die − a much longer wait now, I suspect." He gathered his flannel shirt and lined denim jacket. "I'm glad. The world will be lonely without you," he said in a lost−boy voice. Michael nodded, a lumpy throat kept him from speaking. 163

Val turned back to face him, feral eyes glowing. "I'll dump the gun. Lose your laptop and get a different car. GPS tracking." He smiled at Michael's incredulous expression. "Techno−stupid, yes. But, thanks to Andie, we've caught on to your human tricks. I'll fix it with Katie − and the others." So the mission had been a family one. Michael could imagine Val saying, 'Nothing personal, sport,' but pulling the trigger anyway. The viraran tossed a packet on the bed. Reaching out with his uncanny quickness, Val grabbed Michael by the throat. "Don't fuck me on this. No second chance." Michael remembered Katie telling him that Val would give as many second chances as it took, but said nothing. Lacking the insight of mental voyeurism, Val tried to judge the human's sincerity by visual clues, finally releasing his grip as Michael's vision became indistinct, gray and fuzzy around the edges. "T'hell with it. I didn't want to kill you anyway." Pushing his arms into the jacket and his feet into the boots, he said, "You gotta go to sleep now." In an impersonal but oh−so−gentle way, Val slipped his teeth into Michael's wrist. "You got time to lock the door. Use the chain. You never know what might wander in." Michael laughed, tipsy with relief and venom. "I'll miss you," Val whispered. "Me too," he murmured a groggy reply. "Tell Katie..." There was too much to say, and both viraran knew anyway. "Well," Val shrugged. "You got our number." He had never liked to say goodbye. The envelope on the bed contained a complete set of real−looking identification papers. No, he wouldn't use them. Why make it easy to be found? But the idea lingered attractively. A new identity, Michael mused. Who knew what he could have accomplished as a different person? Perhaps someone who could find the road back or the way forward.

Summer 2007 Katie awoke. She slipped silently from beneath the tanned arm. Heri snorted in his sleep and rolled into another sprawled position on the rosy satin sheets. Even in his sleep, he dominated her bed, she thought with a smile. She reached for the long silk robe and shrugged into the sleeveless wrap. The marble tiles were cool against her feet, but the night wind on the balcony eddied as warm as a lover's kiss between her thighs and across her nipples. The silvery disc of the moon poised on the horizon, the bottom edge roughened by the silhouette of a distant island. Katie closed her eyes as she leaned against the stone balustrade, breathing and feeling −− so much of her brain was designed to process the minute details of her surroundings. The ancient smell −− old wood, weathered stone, centuries of human inhabitation −− filled her with an appreciation of the long history of this part of the world. She could smell wine in the goblets on the table where she and Heri had dined, laughing and flirting, only a few hours before. The other aromas, none unpleasant to her discerning nose, wafting inconstantly on currents of air, reached her from further away. Heri's man−scent, the musky aftermath of energetic sex, the residual smell of dinner, cooking and leavings, painted a picture of her surroundings much richer than that of a human. Someone was thinking hard about her. Somebody had been practicing. In the past two weeks, she had felt this identical feeling four times, always at night, and each time her sat−phone, to which only a handful of people knew the number, had rung immediately after. A conditioned response by now, she mused, reaching for the slim, hinged bit of plastic on the table. Is that what he wanted −− to train her? Or warn her? She pushed the talk key on the first ring. "Hello." He never said anything. 164

"I'm so happy you called." She couldn't even hear breathing, but he was there. "The moon is beautiful on the water, tonight. Greece smells differently than America." She went on to describe the olive trees and the rocky barren cliffs, the sound of the surf, the cry of the birds, and the enthusiasm of the people of the village a few miles from the villa. Each time he called she spoke of her day and the beauty in her world, leaving out only Heri's presence. She knew about discretion. "Come to me. I don't care about the antidote." The truth was easy to tell. Before Kevin had died the past winter in the car accident, he'd partially reformulated the serum. Not the same, no panacea as MB/AF−51 had apparently been, but a start on a longer lifespan for humans. Maureen ran the lab and more breakthroughs were expected now that the genes responsible for many of the common side affects of aging had been identified. If Plan A failed, she'd fall back to Plan B. The quantum time−travel experiments were showing some infantile promise. Plan C would come to her in time. The word infantile echoed in her head. She filed the word for future contemplation. She pictured him as Val had described from their last meeting −− looking thirty not fifty, fit and healthy. Nervous but determined. She shivered, thinking of his smell and feel and touch and taste and all the traits that made him special to her. In another conditioned response, her body temperature increased a degree or two. Why could it not be her to have gone to him then? But she knew the answer. Though he hadn't done so, Val could kill him when she could not. She knew she shouldn't say it, but couldn't stop the words from forming. "I love you." The phone went dead, she could tell even before the sat−operator broke in. "This call originated from a hotel on the Ohio Turnpike, Ms. Zurin. He is still headed toward Pennsylvania." Specifically Placid, Kate could have told her but instead said thank−you and deactivated the phone. Kate sighed and looked out over the Aegean. The moon had left the horizon, now glowing like a peephole in the dark velvet wall of the night sky. Suddenly she picked up the phone and speed−dialed a number. "Two tickets, first class, adjoining. Next available. Harrisburg. −− Yes. Pennsylvania." She would call Val from the plane. She glanced back at the bed. Poor Heri. He was virile and handsome, but he wasn't Michael. No one was. A picture drew her, stronger than words. A vision he'd sent before she'd spoken of her love. The image beckoned to her. A door stood open. The End

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