There was no sign of the tow truck when I pulled into the garage. I circled down to the lower level, searching for the dark green Camaro, and spotted it in an isolated, dark corner. There were more cars than I'd expected and I had to go around the ramp looking for a place to park. I ended up farther away than I would have liked and had to walk back up.

As I approached, I noticed two young men moving around near the car. I stopped and looked them over from the shadow of a pillar. Neither of them was Cameron. One was black, the other white. Both looked unkempt and dangerous. The black guy, the slimmer and shorter of the two, was hanging back, crouched, acting as the lookout as the taller, white guy tried jimmying the trunk open with a crowbar. I didn't like the look of it, so I hung back, slipping my hand toward my pistol.

The trunk lid flew up with a sudden jolt and a pallid blur exploded out of the dark hole beneath. With a scream of rage, a pale whirlwind descended on the man with the crowbar. I darted forward, hand closing around the grips of my gun, not quite sure who was in more trouble: the two car breakers or the willowy apparition that had erupted from the trunk.

The taller thief dropped his crowbar with a howl of pain as he was grabbed and flung backward. His smaller companion, darting panicked glances between the sudden assailant and me rushing toward him, snatched up the crowbar and tried to smash it into the skull of his attacker. He connected with a forearm instead.

I heard the bone shatter. The chalky one let out a shriek and doubled over, vanishing under the open trunk lid. I had my gun out and started to bring it up.

The dark-skinned man whirled toward me with the crowbar raised. I put the sights on him and held. His eyes met mine for a nanosecond.

He panted a moment, then flung the crowbar at me and spun away, running like a scalded dog. I ducked and the crowbar hit the cement with a clang that echoed long after the thief had vanished up the ramp. I could have chased after him, but I wanted to get a look at the guy with the broken arm a lot more.

I edged toward the Camaro. "Hey. You OK?" I called out.

He moaned.

"Cameron? Cameron Shadley?" I led with my left hand out and the gun pointing straight up. I didn't want to take any more damage, but I was prepared to dish a little out, if I had to.

The pale violence leapt at me with a yowl of pain. Hands like a raptor's talons flashed at my face. I backpedaled as fast as I could, turning, my right arm swinging down, left reaching to lock my grip.

"Hal—" I didn't get to finish the warning.

A clawed brick struck my shoulder and scraped up under my hair, yanking out a few strands. Losing my balance, I squeezed on the gun and felt it buck in my hand.

The fury shrieked and flopped onto the ground. He sat there, a haystack of fair hair, cradling his limp right arm in his left hand. Even through the ringing in my ears, I heard him. "You shot me?" he wondered. "Ow! Oh, fuck, that hurts! It's not supposed to hurt!" He lifted his face and glared at me between matted strands of hair. "Why did you shoot me?"

I stayed my distance, the gun firmly gripped, muzzle pointing at the oil-stained cement between us. "You attacked me. I fight back." Everything sounded a little distant to me, still.

"With a gun?"

"It's a much better tool than a stick. Are you Cameron Shadley?"

"Yes," he moaned. "Who the hell are you?"

"Your mother suggested you were a gentlemanly, soft-spoken boy. Now I discover that you swear and hit women," I mused aloud.

"You'll have to excuse me. I'm not at my best when I'm sick and scared out of my socks," he growled. "So, who the heck are you?"

Sarcasm usually indicates a drop in threat level. I put my gun away. "My name is Harper Blaine. I'm a private investigator. Your mother hired me to find you. Are you bleeding badly?"

"It's not too bad now." He winced. "It's closing up already. The bullet must have gone all the way through."

"Let me take you to a hospital."

"Oh, yeah." He started laughing. It didn't sound too rational. "A hospital's going to love me. 'Excuse me, Mr. Shadley, are you aware you haven't got a pulse?»

I stepped closer. "Are you all right?"

"No!" he spat, throwing back his tangled hair. His blood red glower sent a bolt of sickening ice straight through my chest. "I'm not all right! I'm a goddamned vampire with a goddamned hole in his already broken arm. I am not fucking all right, all right!"

Wary, I knelt beside him and looked at the arm he cradled. As I stared, the torn flesh of the bullet wound eased closer together, knit-ting up like a sweater sleeve. Only a couple of millimeters, but enough to convince me that Cameron Shadley was not operating within original design specifications. I looked at him and he glared back. I had to swallow hard a couple of times to work up enough spit to speak and keep my dinner down at the same time.

"I have to get you and your car out of here right away."

"I'll be fine."

"Not once the tow truck gets here."

"Tow truck?"

"Yes." I stood back. "I heard about your car because it's on the impound list. It'll be towed in the next couple of minutes if we don't move it."

He groaned like a soap-opera diva and hung his head back. "Great! Just great! How'm I supposed to drive with one hand? It's a manual."

"I'll drive."

"What about your car? You've got a car, right?"

"My car isn't going to be towed yet. Come on. Let's go. Give me the keys."

Grunting, Cameron reached into the left front pocket of his jeans and flipped me the keys. Miserable, he oozed into the passenger seat as I tied the Camaro's trunk shut around the broken lock, then got into the driver's seat. In five minutes, we were at the payment kiosk.

"Ticket?"

I looked at Cam. He looked back and shrugged. "Lost it."

"Lost ticket pays the maximum—twenty dollars."

I handed over a twenty and asked for a receipt. We passed the tow truck a block away. I parked the car under the Viaduct and turned to Cameron.

"You stay put here while I go back for my truck. I don't want to have to hunt you down again."

"I'll stay right here," he sighed. "Promise."

I got out, taking the keys, and walked back to the garage. The man in the payment kiosk gave me an odd look when I pulled up again.

"Weren't you just here?"

"Yeah. Had to drive my kid brother's car out. He's so smashed he can barely walk."

He grunted and jerked his head, taking my money. "You want a receipt this time, too?"

"Yes. I'm going to make him pay me every cent."

He chuckled and handed me the receipt. I drove away and parked next to Cameron's Camaro. It was right where I'd left it. Cameron didn't seem to be in the front seat, though.

"Cameron?" I yelled, looking around. I didn't see him anywhere around the car. I stared at the passenger seat, furious and grinding my teeth. Something flickered. I breathed deeply and looked harder along the wavering edge of the Grey. I reached out and jerked the door open.

Cameron rolled onto the ground.

"Hey!" he yelled, jumping up. "You're not supposed to be able to see me. That's my best trick!"

"I didn't have to see you, just your Grey shadow."

"I don't cast a shadow anymore."

"You do if you know where to look."

"Huh?"

"Never mind. I can see you. What I want to know is why can I see you in the paranormal?"

"I told you—I'm a vampire," he snapped. There was that glare again. This time I was better prepared, but it still felt like an arctic wind had blown through my rib cage.

I studied him a little harder this time. His skin had a pallor that went beyond merely ill, all the way to waxy, and his eyes seemed to have an opaque glaze over the irises, deadening the vibrant violet I had expected to a pastel lilac. His grin was a dead giveaway: his canine teeth were prominent points and the gums had drawn back. I caught a whiff of something and gagged.