"William?"

The interior wasn't exactly gothic. Our kitchen was actually quite cheery in spite of the fact that we didn't use it for much, decorated in soft yellow tones. I'd bought the house new back in 1912, but it had undergone several major renovations since then. Keeping up normal appearances was an art that Edward had drilled into my head nearly a hundred and seventy years ago.

A tall, wrinkled old man shuffled in, wearing brown trousers and a faded burgundy smoking jacket. Silver hair hung past his shoulders with tiny dry wisps floating now and then across his narrow face. Veins in his hands, once blue, lay flat and purple beneath flesh so dry it crackled at contact with anything else. Milky white eyes gazed out at me in hurt confusion.

"You weren't here for dinner last night. Left me hungry," he said.

"I'm sorry, William. We have to move again. Edward Claymore killed himself this morning, and the police found bodies in his cellar. They'll be looking for people to question."

"Have you called Julian?"

Sometimes William surprised me with a flash of memory or clarity of thought.

"No," I answered. "We have enough money to relocate. I'll call him once we're settled." Explaining all this to Julian was going to be a nightmare. I'd put it off as long as possible.

William's momentary comprehension faded. His eyebrows knitted slightly. "What about dinner?"

"Of course." I pulled a kitchen chair out for him. "Just sit down, and we'll fix you up."

Rows of rabbit hutches lined the back of our house. A large part of my job was caring for these small creatures that nourished William. He'd always been too weak to absorb human life force.

When I came back in, he was sitting in his chair, waiting. After covering his clothes with a large tablecloth, I held a struggling brown rabbit up to his mouth. He bit down through soft fur and drained the animal until it stopped kicking and fell limp in my hands. He smiled slightly with blood smeared all over his mouth and began pulling at the tablecloth.

"Hang on," I said. "Let me wipe your face first."

He was surprisingly careful about his appearance, in spite of the fact that no one ever saw him except me.

Most other vampires are obsessed with beauty and perfection, and so William made them uneasy. Edward couldn't stand the sight of him and often remarked about what a horrible lot I had. "Julian is a pig, pushing his responsibility off on you," he used to say. Of course, he never said it to Julian's face. Edward may have been cynical, but he wasn't stupid.

My old charge was one of a kind. He couldn't hunt or protect himself. Edward had been wrong about my lot, though. I loved William's sweet, wrinkled face and honestly didn't mind taking care of him. It gave me something to do.

After cleaning him up, I took him into the study and built a fire. Then I brought him some small blocks of wood, a knife, sandpaper, and paint.

"Could you make us a new set of checkers? I've got to go out and find us a place to stay for a few days. If you make us a new set, we'll have something to do when we get there."

"Will you play with me?" he asked.

"Even let you win."

He smiled and picked up one of the small wood blocks. We had nineteen sets of checkers and two half-finished sets of chess pieces upstairs, but he loved to work with his hands, and I needed something to keep him busy for a few hours.

Hurrying into the bathroom, I looked in the mirror and grimaced.

My face was smeared with dirt, my clothes smelled like dead cats, and my hair was dotted with dried blood flakes from leaning against Edward's kitchen wall. Oh, that story about us not being able to see our own reflection is absurd, too. We're solid. Of course we can see our reflection.

I took a shower, blow-dried my hair, and put on a peach, ankle-length sundress. That's kind of funny, isn't it? A sundress?

William was already settled in the study, so I didn't bother popping back in on him before leaving. Too many intrusions would only confuse him.

I put my car in the garage, as driving it seemed risky. I could just picture some overzealous rookie spotting it and picking me up for questioning. I really don't like cops. Besides, the walk toward downtown Portland is nice.

Portland was a great place for us. Old, but not too old. Vogue, but not too vogue. Decent crime rate, but nothing like New York or Chicago. Plus… besides Edward, none of my kind had ever been drawn to set up a home here, which was a good thing. Stepping on someone else's territory could be a real problem for me. I'd get my head ripped off. We all have certain gifts that make survival possible-except for William, of course-but physical strength wasn't one of mine. We don't choose our gifts.

My particular gift has so many advantages that I'm not sure I'd trade it in if I could. As the smell of Portland's downtown air blew gently into my nostrils, I put my talent into motion. Too easy.

The dim light of Mickey's, my favorite bar, glowed off my dress as I walked in the door. I drew my shoulders forward slightly. My wispy blond hair fell down to cover half my face as I assumed a long-accustomed role: fragile and helpless. It never failed.

The dance floor was crowded. Unrecognizable bodies clutched at each other, moving slowly to the sappy lyrics of Journey's "Faithfully." This place was one of my ideal hangouts.

"Eleisha."

A familiar face called to me from the bar, but not the face I'd come looking for. I shifted my features to a frightened, hesitant expression.

"Hi, Derek." I moved up to the bar and to the inside of his stool, as though intimidated by the crowd and the noise. He knew me pretty well-at least in this persona-and put his hand on my waist in a protective gesture.

"Where you been?" he asked. "You ain't been here in weeks."

Derek was okay. I actually thought of him as sort of a friend, as much as he could be. Irish American, with red hair and a short-trimmed beard. Nice guy.

"I came to see Brian. Is he here?"

Derek looked surprised. "Yeah, he's around somewhere. Doesn't strike me as your type."

I flashed him an embarrassed smile. "It's nothing like that. I just need a favor."

"Why didn't you tell me?" He pulled out his wallet. "How much do you need?"

"No, that's not it either."

Lightly, I touched his wrist with the tips of my fingers. The tiny hairs on his arm stood up and his breathing quickened.

"Then what?" he asked. "You never let me do anything for you. You come in here and talk to me and then either leave by yourself or with some loser. I thought we were friends."

"That's why you never leave with me. I need to keep my friends. Find Brian, please."

If this had been anyone but me, he would have spat, "Get lost," and turned back to his beer. But he didn't. His eyes were hurt and confused and bright green like Edward's. Sometimes he actually got to me.

"Okay," he muttered. "Stay here."

I watched him work his way through the crowd, and then I turned to Christopher, the bartender, a pseudointellectual with a master's degree in anthropology.

"What does Brian usually drink?"

"Rum and Coke."

"Get me one of those and a red wine."

He grunted something unintelligible and reached toward the glasses. People here were an odd mix of lower-middle-class folks looking for company and a good time. I hung out here because that particular social level of men is especially susceptible to a pretty, young girl who needs someone to "take care of her." I think it's because they work so hard, and they sometimes just look at their lives and think, "Why am I doing this?" Then they meet some tiny, helpless creature who looks up to them, and they don't stand a chance. It's not really fair, but that's my gift. That's what I was given. I don't like killing. I hate it. There just isn't any other way.