"No," I said. "Happy now?"

"Yes," he said, though his voice didn't sound exactly happy. "Tell me what's wrong. Why do you need Edward's help?"

"I need to talk to Edward, but I won't tell you why, or what it's about."

"I'm not a baby, Anita."

"I know that."

"No, you don't," he said.

I sighed. "I don't think you're a baby, but you are a kid, Peter. You're grown-up for sixteen, but I'd like to keep some of the darker shit away from you until you reach at least eighteen. If Edward wants to share with you later, that's his lookout."

"You might as well tell me, Anita. If I ask, he'll tell me."

I hoped he was wrong, but was afraid he was right. "If Edward wants you to know, he'll tell you, Peter. But I am not going to tell you, and that's final."

"Is it that bad?" he asked, and I heard the first thread of worry.

Shit, again. I just couldn't win conversations with Peter. I'd only had a handful of them lately, but he always seemed to talk me into a box. "Get Edward on the phone, Peter, now."

"I can handle myself in a fight, Anita. I can help."

Shit, shit, and double shit. I was not going to win this conversation. "I'm hanging up now, Peter."

"No, Anita, I'm sorry, I'm sorry." And his voice went from that cynical grown-up to an almost childlike panic. The panic had worked better before his voice deepened. "Don't hang up, please, I'll get Ted." The phone hit wood so hard, I had to put the phone away from my ear. He came back on, saying, "Sorry, dropped the phone. I'm getting dressed. I'll go knock on their door. If it's bad enough for you to call Edward, then you need to talk to him. I'll stop being a kid and just get him for you." He was a little angry with me, but mostly frustrated. He wanted to help. He wanted to grow up. He wanted to fight for real, whatever the hell that meant. What was Edward teaching him? Did I really want to know? No. Would I ask? Yes, unfortunately, yes. God, I did not need another problem on my plate right now. I thought about trying to lie to Edward, say I'd just called up to chat about the latest issue of Mercenaries Quarterly, but if I wasn't up to lying to Peter, Edward was absolutely out of my weight class.

I SAT ON the edge of the bathtub, waiting for Edward to come to the phone. I'd insisted on privacy for the phone call, though I'd told Jean-Claude and Micah who I was trying to call. Jean-Claude had said only, "Help would not be unwelcome." The comment said, clearly, that he was worried. The more worried I realized he was, the more worried I got.

I heard noise over the phone, movement. The phone was picked up, and I heard Edward's voice say, "Hang up the other extension, Peter." A second later he spoke directly into the phone. "Anita, Peter said you needed help, my kind of help." His voice was that empty-middle-of-nowhere accent. It was his normal voice; when he was playing Ted Forrester, good ol' boy, he had a drawl.

"I didn't say I needed help," I said.

"Then why did you call?"

"Can't I just call to chat?"

He laughed, and the laugh was strangely familiar. I realized it was an echo of Peter's laugh earlier, or maybe Peter's laugh was an echo of Edward's. They weren't genetically related, I knew that, so what was with the laugh? Imitation, maybe.

"You would never call me just to chat, Anita. That's not what we do for each other." He laughed again, and murmured, "Called to chat," as if the idea were too ridiculous for words.

"I do not need you to be condescending, thanks anyway." I was angry and had no right to be. I'd called him, and it was me I was angry at. I was wishing I hadn't called—for so many reasons.

"What's wrong?" he asked, not taking offense. He knew me too well to let a little angry outburst bother him.

I opened my mouth, closed it, then said, "I'm trying to decide where to start."

"Start with the dangerous part." There, that was Edward, not start at the beginning, but start with the dangerous part.

"I did call for backup, but I have other backup already. It's not you, but it's not a bunch of amateurs either." I was being honest. The wererats were almost completely ex-military, ex-police, or ex-criminals. Some of the werehyenas were the same flavor of professional. I had help. I shouldn't have called Edward.

"You sound like you're trying to talk yourself out of asking me for help," he said, and his voice was curious, not worried, just curious.

"I am."

"Why?"

"Because Peter answered the phone."

There was a sharp intake of breath. "Hang up the phone, Peter," Edward said.

"If Anita's in trouble, I want to know about it."

"Hang up the phone," he said, "and don't make me ask again."

"But…"

"Now."

I heard the phone click.

"Well," I said.

"Wait," he said.

I sat on my side of the phone in silence, wondering what we were waiting for. Finally Edward said, "He's off."

"Does he listen in on phone conversations a lot?"

"No."

"How do you know he doesn't?"

"I know…" He stopped himself, and said, "I don't think he does. I think you're a special case for Peter. He's in Donna's old room. I told him he could keep the phone if he behaved. I'll talk to him."

"If he's in Donna's old room, where are you and she sleeping? Not that it's any of my business," I added.

"We put a master suite on the house."

"Have you moved in, then?"

"Pretty much."

"You sell your house?" I asked.

"No."

"I guess Batman can't sell the bat cave."

"Something like that." But his voice, which had started a little friendly, was not friendly now. It was empty, the old pre-Donna Edward talking to me. He might be talking about domestic bliss and raising teenagers, but he was still the coldest killer I'd ever met, and that person was still in there. I wasn't sure whether I couldn't bear the thought of him watching Becca at ballet class, or would have paid to see him sitting with all the other parents waiting for their leotard-clad darlings.

"If I lied well enough I'd just make something up and hang up."

"Why?" he asked, in that empty voice.

"Because Peter answering the phone made me realize that it's not all fun and games anymore. If I get you killed, then they lose another father. I don't want to have to explain that to Peter, or Donna, or Becca."

"But especially Peter," he said.

"Yeah," I said.

"Since you can't lie to me, just tell me, Anita." His voice was a little softer now, a little feeling to it. Edward liked me; we were friends. He'd miss me if I were gone, and I'd miss him, but there was still a little question on whether one day we'd find ourselves on the opposite sides of a problem, and have to finally see which of us was the better man. I was hoping that day would never come, because there was no way for me to win the fight now; dead or alive, we'd both lose.

"Do you know what the Harlequin are?" I asked.

"French clowns?" he said, and let himself sound puzzled.

"Do you know them in any other context?"

"Twenty questions isn't like you, Anita; just talk."

"I just wanted to see if I was the only vampire hunter extraordinaire who was totally in the dark about this. It makes me feel a little better that you don't know about them either. Apparently Jean-Claude is right; they really are a big, dark secret."

"Talk," he said.

I talked. I told him what little I knew about the Harlequin and his band. It really wasn't that much.

He was quiet so long that I said, "Edward, I can hear you breathing, but…"

"I'm here, Anita. Just thinking."

"Thinking what?" I asked.

"That you always let me play with the best toys." And his voice wasn't empty now, it was eager.