She wasn't a vampire. She smelled warm and I could hear her heart beat. But she sure was trying to act like one. I couldn't stop staring at her, like, Are you for real?

"All right, Veronica. You write about vampires in a way that makes them particularly vivid. Some critics have commented on your ability to take them out of the realm of standard horror fare and turn them into richly realized characters. They're the heroes of your stories."

"Yes, of course, why shouldn't they be? It's all a matter of perspective."

"You've gathered a following of admirers who seem to identify strongly with your vampire protagonists. Quite a few of them insist that your novels aren't fiction, but factual accounts of real vampires. What do you say to this?"

She waved her hand in a dismissive gesture that was totally lost on the radio.

"I wouldn't know where to find a real vampire. Vampires are a product of the human imagination. My books are all products of my own imagination."

I had my doubts. Putting Sevilla's rabid fans and her florid overwriting aside, she got too many details right. The way vampire Families worked, the things they said to one another, the dominance and posturing games that went on among them the same way they went on among werewolves—details that an outsider wouldn't be able to make up. So, she either did a great job on her research, in which case I wanted to know what her sources of information on vampire culture were, or she had connections. Before meeting her, I half-expected her to be a vampire, or a human servant of one, or something.

"Why do you think your fans are so attracted to your characters and stories? Why do people want to believe in vampires?"

"My books create a world that is enticing. My world, the Bledsoe Family, vampires in general—these are all metaphors for the power these poor children wish they could have in life but can't because they are so… so…"

"Insecure?"

"Outcast. Misfit Badly adjusted."

"Are you saying your fans are social misfits?"

She touched a bitten-down fingernail to her lip. "Hm, that is imprecise."

"You have fans who come to you wanting to learn about vampires, wanting to become vampires. They see you as an authority on the subject What do you tell them?"

"I tell them it's fiction. Everything I have to say is there in the books. What do you tell them, when people ask you such questions?"

"I tell them that maybe being a vampire isn't all it's cracked up to be."

"Have you ever met a vampire, Kitty?"

I paused, a smile tugging at my lips. "Yeah, I have. And frankly, I find that your novels are pretty accurate."

"Well. What am I supposed to say to that? Perhaps you could introduce me to one."

I thought about it and decided that Arturo would love to have her for lunch—but he had better taste.

"Why vampires? You write centuries-long family sagas—why not write historical epics without any hint of the supernatural?"

"Well, that would be boring, wouldn't it?"

"Yeah, God only knows what Tolstoy was thinking. Seriously, though, what's your inspiration? Where do you get your ideas?"

"Writers hate that question."

"I think writers only say they hate it to avoid answering it."

"Is that any way to speak to a guest?"

I sighed. She was used to being pampered. Dressing room and a bowl of peanut M&Ms with the green ones taken out, that sort of thing.

"I apologize, Veronica. I tend to be a bit on the blunt side."

She looked me up and down, nodding slightly, agreeing.

The interview wasn't one of my best. We got off on the wrong foot, and she was entirely too closemouthed to make it work. She didn't want to be here. Her publicist had set up the interview as part of the promotional tour for the new book. She'd probably done a dozen of these appearances already.

I took some calls and got the expected round of gushing, ebullient fans. Veronica handled them better than I did, but she'd had lots of practice.

At last, like the door of a prison cell slamming open, the show ended and we were done. I pulled off the headphones and regarded Veronica Sevilla.

"Thanks again for being on the show. I know my listeners got a kick out of it."

I expected her to humph at me, make a dismissive gesture, and stalk out leaving a trail of haughty slime behind her. Instead, she licked her lips. Her lipstick needed touching up. Her gaze downcast, she straightened and took a deep breath before speaking.

"I owe you an apology, Ms. Norville." Oh? "I was not entirely truthful with you. I have met a vampire. My son is one."

I had no response to that. I tried to look sympathetic and waited for more.

"I don't want that information made public. With a little imagination I think you can understand why. My fans are forward enough as it is. But I wanted you to know the truth. I hope I can trust you to keep this secret."

I nodded. "I'm good at keeping secrets. I've got a few of my own. How—I mean, if it isn't too brazen of me to ask—how did you find out?"

"He's been a youthful eighteen for twenty years now. I got suspicious. I asked for his secret, and he told me. My stories—they're about him. My son will not have the life I envisioned for him, and these novels are my way of reconciling myself to the life he does have. If one can call it life."

I saw her to the door, where she adjusted the mink stole around her shoulders and walked out, chin up, the epitome of dignity.

Full moon night. Time to run.

T.J. picked me up on his bike, which was behaving itself, rumbling smooth and steady like a grizzly bear. He drove fast and took the turns tight. I didn't wear a helmet so I could taste the air whipping by. I tipped back my head and drank it in, as the city scents of asphalt and exhaust gave way to the countryside, dry grass, earth, and distant pines. The sun was setting, the moon hadn't yet risen, but I could feel it, a silver breath that tugged the tides and my heart. A howl tickled the back of my throat—the pack was near. I clung to T.J., smiling.

The pack gathered at Carl and Meg's house, at the edge of the national forest. It might have been just another party, the dozen or so cars parked on the street, the collection of people congregating in the living room. But tension gripped the room, anticipation and nerves. The veil to that other world we lived in was drawn halfway. We could see through, but had to wait to enter. Carl wasn't here yet.

Twenty-two wolves made up the local pack. They came from an area of a couple-hundred-mile radius, drawing from the urban areas up and down the Front Range, from Colorado Springs to Fort Collins. Most of them I only ever saw on full moon nights. We knew our places. I slunk around the edges of the room, trying to be innocuous.

My skin itched. I hugged myself, trying to stay anchored. So close. She, the Wolf, was waiting, staring out of my eyes. Her claws scraped at the inside of my skin, wanting to push through the tips of my fingers. She wanted fur instead of skin. Her blood flowed hot.

I flinched when the presence of another entered my awareness, like a force pressing through a membrane that surrounded me. I felt Zan before I saw him move to block my path.

He was young, my age, but he'd been a wolf since he was a teenager. He had pale skin, unkempt dark hair, and an animal stared out of his eyes.

I hated him. His scent tinged my nightmares. He was the one who'd attacked me and made me this thing.

He followed me around sometimes, like he was waiting for a chance to finish what he'd started. Like he could still smell blood on me. Or like he thought I owed him something. I stayed away from him as much as I could. T.J., Carl, and Meg backed him off the rest of the time. He wasn't that tough.

T.J. was in the kitchen. I'd have to cross the entire room to get to him. Zan cornered me.