It was only a three-day visit—I didn’t want to push my luck—but it was wonderful.

I enjoy the illusion of being human.

Maybe that’s what has me upset. Tonight, Black shattered the illusion.

I pull the Jag into the garage, next to Lance’s silver Aston Martin DB9. The top is down. I run a finger over butter-soft leather when I walk past. Such a boy’s toy. Warmth still radiates off the hood—Lance must have arrived just minutes before. I slip out of the garage and hit the remote on my keychain.

The door is sliding shut when a blur catches the corner of my eye. From inside the garage, something propels itself toward me. Too fast. I’m hit broadside, thrown back. I recover, regain my balance, but not quickly enough. I feel the blade enter, just below the sternum, slash upward, scrape against bone. No pain at first. Just surprise.

Then rage.

The human Anna is gone. The vampire grabs the knife before it can strike again. I don’t know what I’m fighting. I can’t see a face, can’t get inside the head. No time to figure it out. It doesn’t matter. I turn the knife on the attacker—plunge it where it will do the most damage, yank it down. The abdomen rips apart, spilling intestines in a spray of blood.

An animal scream.

It tries to turn away.

It’s not human.

Finally, a flash of recognition. Vampire.

I grab it, pull it back. Why?

No response. My blood is on fire. Self-preservation and fury swamp restraint. I raise the knife and slash at the throat. Blood arcs, splashes across my face before my mouth closes over the wound.

I drink until I feel the last flutter of life.

I let the body fall. Watch as it shrivels into the image of an old man.

Vampire.

Lance is suddenly beside me—teeth bared and claws extended. He sees the body on the ground.

Then he looks at me. My hands clutch at my chest. Blood flows over my fingers. He knows. My blood.

He pulls me to him, rips the torn fabric of my shirt. He places his own mouth over the wound and begins to suck at it.

I groan with the pain and pleasure. Healing starts from the inside, organs repair themselves, cells regenerate. Lance’s arms are steel around me. His concentration shifts once he knows I’m all right. Blood—mine, the attacker’s— its smell and texture, a siren song. Lust replaces alarm. Need replaces concern. He lowers me to the ground.

We fumble with our clothes. We’re both in jeans. It takes too long to try to wriggle free. Zippers are ripped apart, denim shredded. When he mounts me, it’s with relief and joy.

No shared thoughts. No shared desires.

Joy.

A primal celebration. Acknowledgment that I escaped the death from which no vampire returns.

After, he raises himself up on his elbows. “What just happened?”

I run my nails down his back. “I don’t know. Right now, I don’t care.” I raise my hips and clench my thighs to push him deeper inside. “We can figure it out later. I’m not finished with you yet.”

He moans and pushes back. “I hope not.

A while later, calmer, sated, reason returns.

Lance sits up, looks around. “Maybe we’d better go inside.”

We’re on the driveway, in the shadow of the garage, but he’s right. A glance at my watch. We’ve been out here forty minutes. We can’t have made too much noise since I’ve sensed no neighbors approach to have a look. Still, we do have a body to dispose of.

We scramble up, clutching ruined clothing, air cool against bare skin.

Lance points to the mummified corpse. “What are we going to do about him?”

The knife is where I dropped it. Blood and intestines are a rusty smudge on the driveway. Lance smears dirt over the spot and picks up the knife. I grab the corpse by a desiccated arm and drag him through the gate into the backyard. When a vampire is killed by stake or fire, he turns to ash. When he’s drained, his corpse reverts to what his human age would be. If it’s twenty, he looks like a twenty-year-old, if it’s fifty, a fifty-year-old. Judging by the looks of this guy, he must have been well over one hundred.

Which adds another piece to the puzzle.

I close and lock the gate. Why would an old-soul vampire attack me?

Lance and I take time to shower, soaping off blood and dirt, losing ourselves for a few minutes longer in pleasure rather than the problem lying in the grass outside the back door. But reality can’t be shut out forever, and reluctantly, we leave the warm cocoon of the bath to get dressed and face the corpse.

Soon we’re in the backyard, steaming mugs of coffee clutched in cold hands, looking down at what’s left of my attacker. I hand my mug to Lance and bend down to riffle the guy’s clothing. Cotton long-sleeved T-shirt, black hoodie, cotton slacks, tennis shoes.

No jacket. No wallet. No ID.

“Any idea who he was?” Lance asks.

I straighten and shake my head. “Not a clue. I haven’t pissed anybody off lately. At least, not that I know of.” I glance toward the garage. “He came from inside the garage. Maybe he wanted your car?”

Lance snorts. “He’s not very smart if he was after my car. That thing has so many anti-theft devices, it does everything but blow itself up if it’s tampered with. Besides, if he was already in the garage, and you didn’t see him, why wouldn’t he just wait for you to leave?”

“Not only didn’t I see him, I didn’t sense him. Not then, not during the attack, not after, when I bled him.”

“He was shielding himself from you,” Lance says. He holds out my mug.

“Right to the end,” I reply, taking it.

Lance releases a breath. “You and David have any jobs lined up the next couple of days?”

I shake my head.

The sun is beginning to tint the sky. He squints up at it.

“Let’s take a drive,” he says.

“Where?”

“To my place in Palm Springs. We can bury the mummy in the desert along the way. We’ll spend the weekend.”

“I’ll get a sheet.”

Lance follows me inside. “And we’re taking your car.”

When I raise a questioning eyebrow, he replies, “The Jag has a bigger trunk.”

But his thoughts say, No way am I putting a rotting corpse in the Aston Martin.

The ride through the desert on an early July morning is lonely and quiet. Not many souls willing to brave temperatures already into the eighties. Having a vampire’s constitution, however, allows Lance and me to put the top down on the Jag and let the warmth of the sun bake our bones.

I’m driving. We take the 15 to 74—the scenic route on a road that hairpins back and forth as it gains elevation through the Santa Rosa Mountains. This is rattlesnake and coyote terrain. Desolate in a beautiful way.

We choose a place to turn off at a junction between the highway and an unmarked dirt road. In the fall and winter, this is a popular ATV playground. In the summer, the only visitors slither or scurry away at the sound of the car’s approach.

We drive miles into the desert, the road so well traveled the Jag has no trouble on the hardscrabble surface. Ten miles from the highway, we park. We’ll have to go on foot from this point if we want to bury our mummy friend where he’s not likely to be found when the change of season turns the desert back into a four-wheeling playground.

Lance hoists the sheet-shrouded body over his shoulder. I grab a pick and shovel, and we start toward an outcropping of rock in the distance. Up until this time, we’ve traveled in silence, enjoying the sound of the desert wind, the feel and smell of it in our faces, the guttural purr of the Jag’s engine. But after a few minutes, I feel Lance’s gentle intrusion into my head.

What should we do about this guy?

I frown. Besides bury him? I don’t know. What do you think? After all, we can’t be sure he wasn’t after your car. Maybe he’s just a thief.