Being an undead bloodsucker makes everything complicated.

With my hand steadying her shoulder, she guided me into the apartment and her bedroom. Veronica plunked face first onto the mattress. Her feet dangled off the edge of the bed and her flip-flops dropped to the floor.

Veronica's right hand came up and pointed to the hall. "Felix, be my hero," she mumbled, "and bring some water."

I went to the bathroom and filled a glass. When I returned to the bedroom, Veronica had turned onto one side and gathered a pillow under her head. The little screen of an iPod on the nightstand gave an inert glow.

I set the glass beside the iPod, took off my shoes, and lay next to Veronica to spoon. Her firm rump pressed along my pelvis. I pushed one hand under the pillow and laid the other on her hip.

The music playing was a woman crooning about frustrated love. She must've cribbed my notes.

Up close, Veronica was a cascade of smells: sweat, tequila, mango chutney, shampoo, aloe vera lotion, and her delicious pheromones. This beautiful, healthy-albeit pickled to a hundred proof-creature that I rested against was a reservoir of savory blood and sexual release.

I could zap Veronica and enjoy the ride. What would prevent me?

A junkie going cold turkey and finding a syringe loaded with smack, a pyromaniac with matches, gasoline, and an empty house, their temptations were trivial whims compared to the roiling hunger that stoked my desire.

Her heart thumped a beaconing tempo.

My fangs pushed out from my gums.

The valves in her veins ticked like stopwatches, counting the seconds before my attack.

My kundalini noir coiled as it prepared me to strike and feed.

No. I wouldn't take advantage of Veronica.

God had taken away my soul, but I remained with a free will. I am vampire, not an animal that surrenders to every impulse.

I'd reciprocate Veronica's affection, nothing more. Let her decide, sober and willing, how this relationship would progress.

I held Veronica tight and waited for temptation to pass. My kundalini noir finally relaxed and my fangs shrank back under my lip.

Veronica snored faintly and I waited for the songs on the iPod to end.

I stayed with her until 3 A.M., then got up and removed my contacts. Veronica lay swaddled in her red aura, undulating with dreamy thoughts. I walked to the front room. The floor creaked, and I levitated to pad about noiselessly.

Something rustled outside the window. A small red aura betrayed an opossum munching grapes.

"Better scat," I whispered, "before Coyote finds you."

The opossum's beady eyes stared from under a crown of grape leaves as it continued eating.

I dug through my overnight bag for blood I brought from Coyote's. I microwaved one package of type B-positive.

While sipping blood through a drinking straw, I opened the box with Roxy's file and removed the first folder. I sat in a chair with the folder on my lap and unfastened a binder clip.

This file contained photocopies of the agendas and minutes from city council meetings. Someone had scrawled along the margins and between the paragraphs. Words were underlined with bold strokes, as if the pen had been slashed across the paper like a blade.

I recognized names from the Los Angeles political scene. Lucky Rosario. Councilwoman Petale Venin. I kept tripping over her name in this investigation. She was the quarterback behind the effort to get Project Eleven on the ballot. I assumed she had plenty of dirt under her fingernails-what politician didn't? — but I couldn't imagine someone in her public position risking murder.

Nowhere in the papers did I see mention of Cragnow Vissoom, Dr. Mordecai Niphe, or Reverend Journey.

I flipped through the stack. It would take a month to go through these documents. I'd get a clearer picture of the battle over Project Eleven, but would anyone have said something to incriminate him- or herself with violent crime? Or even more improbably, vampire-human collusion?

I leafed through the next folder, a collection of grainy black-and-white copies of photographs.

The first photo that caught my interest was of Lucky Rosario standing beside a washed-up Hollywood celebrity. The actor had done a series about a bounty hunter in Miami until low ratings and a drug habit did him in.

Where had I seen these pictures before?

On the wall of Rosario's office.

How did Roxy get these copies? When I first saw the original pictures at Rosario's they didn't mean much. What had I missed? What was the significance to my investigation?

Something like this next picture.

Three men stood before a restaurant table.

The man on the left was the shortest. Wearing a pinstriped shirt and fashionable tie, with keen eyes peering through wire-rims, and a thick mat of kinky hair, was Dr. Mordecai Niphe. In the middle of the group, a white shirt rumpled under the armpits, collar and tie digging into a fat neck, grinned Lucky Rosario. Lucky's arm draped over Niphe's shoulder like they were best buds.

Standing to the right was a tall, older man in a suit. He had gray, almost whitish, well-groomed hair. I didn't need a caption to know who he was.

Reverend Dale Journey.

He projected the arrogant bearing of an elderly senator or a retired air force general. Yet his smile appeared too tight. Nervous. The gap between Journey and Rosario told me that Journey didn't want to be seen in this company.

Journey and Niphe together, with Rosario in the middle. What linked them? Who lurked unseen in the background? Cragnow Vissoom?

The time was 5:30 A.M. Sunrise would come soon. I needed to hide from the deadly rays of first light. Sunblock wasn't enough to protect me.

The photos were promising, but first I had to protect myself from the sun. I clipped the file together and set it back in the box.

The front room faced east. I closed the drapes tight and retreated to a room at the back of Veronica's apartment, the west side. I felt like a spider slinking down its hole.

What made the sunrise so dangerous? I didn't know. Perhaps a vampire's psychic defenses weakened over the night and the splash of sunlight breaking across the eastern horizon was too intense to endure. Or was there a special property of sunlight when it penetrated the atmosphere at a low oblique angle? Let another vampire, some undead egghead, solve that mystery.

I closed the door of the back room and shut the curtains to block any stray reflected sunbeams.

The room was Veronica's home office. A laptop computer sat on a small desk. Assorted notes to call Mom, pick up laundry, dangled from thumbtacks stuck to a corkboard on the wall. Binders stuffed with papers lay stacked on an ironing board.

One paper lay half out of the binder, and I slipped it out. It was a letter from the dean of the Graduate School at Brown University offering a tenured position teaching public affairs and public policy. I opened the binder. The next paper was a letter of introduction from the marketing department of Toyota of America. Buried in the binder were unopened envelopes from Princeton, a lobbying firm in Washington, D.C., and Univision. This was a basket of brass rings, and yet Veronica ignored them to stay where she felt needed most-in the ramshackle surroundings of Barrios Unidos.

What I had run away from, Veronica embraced as her calling.

But I had left years ago. As a boy. Human. Now I returned as vampire on a mission of vengeance.

I waited in a cheap office chair next to the desk. Slowly the curtain turned into an illuminated rectangle as sunrise began. The minutes passed, and the rectangle got brighter and brighter.