Not good. Max is a big man, hard muscled, big boned. He usually carries about 225 pounds on a six foot three frame. Today, he looks haggard. Worn. His clothes, jeans, T-shirt, a leather jacket, hang on his frame like rags on a scarecrow. He looks like he's lost thirty pounds. He's covered with dust and the lines on his face have deepened, his blue eyes are dull.

But not his reflexes. Before he registers who is standing in front of him, his hand is on the gun under his jacket.

When recognition hits, he backs down, though his eyes narrow. "Anna. What are you doing here?"

Culebra answers before I can, "She's working on a case. A kidnapper believed to be living in Tijuana. I had some information for her."

He looks around. "You came here alone? Where's David?"

"He's joining me in TJ," I respond quickly. "But what's happened to you? You look terrible."

A spark of the old Max flares back. "As opposed to the way you look." He raises an eyebrow. "Nice skirt, where's the rest of it?"

"Glad to see you haven't lost your sense of humor along with your shampoo and soap."

He sways suddenly, unsteady on his feet. I gesture toward a table and he follows me. Once he's seated with me beside him, Culebra lays a hand on Max's shoulder.

"I'll get you some food."

Culebra shoots me a look. Here is what you need. And then he moves away.

As if Max was in any shape to donate blood. I ignore him, putting my hands over Max's on the tabletop. "Is it Martinez?"

Max doesn't answer. He doesn't really have to. Max is here because Culebra offers protection to his friends, human and otherwise, in this unlikely place in the Mexican desert. Until recently, Max had been in deep cover as the driver of one of Latin America's biggest drug lords, Rodrigo Martinez. The case was made, with Culebra's help I suspect, and the operation closed down. But Martinez got away. He's after Max and Max is after him.

Max rouses himself to squeeze my hands. "How are you? How is your niece?"

I smile. "Trish is wonderful. She's with my folks in Europe. Mom took a leave of absence from school for a couple of months. She thought Trish could use a little time away."

My voice breaks off. Thirteen-year-old Trish suffered abuse at the hands of her mother and her mother's scumbag friends. They're either dead now, or in prison. My folks have taken her in, believing her to be the daughter of my deceased brother.

A belief I've fostered for all their sakes.

Max smiles, too. "It's good that she's with them. Why didn't you go along?"

A dozen reasons flash through my head, every one centered on the problems faced by a vampire trying to conceal her true identity from her mortal family and friends.

Friends like Max.

I shrug. “Timing was off. Business is booming. When the economy declines, crime seems to take an uptick."

"The kidnapper in TJ? You know you need to be careful. Mexico does not look kindly on bounty hunters."

"Hence the work clothes," I reply with a smile. "He'll follow me willingly, don't you think?"

I let a heartbeat go by before asking again, "What about you? Are you in Beso de la Muerte because of Martinez?"

But now Culebra is back at the table with a tray that smells of beef and grilled vegetables. He sets it before Max along with tortillas and a bottle of beer.

Max attacks the food with voracious enthusiasm. He pauses once to gulp down the beer and Culebra fetches another bottle before pulling out a chair to join us.

With his hunger satisfied, Max pushes the plate away and looks up at us. "It's been a while since I've eaten."

"Clearly," Culebra says. "There's more in the kitchen."

Max shakes his head and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "What I need now is a shower and a good night's sleep."

Culebra looks at me. Do you wish to stay here tonight with Max?

Culebra does not know of my decision to end things with Max. Neither does Max. Somehow tonight does not seem the appropriate time nor Beso de la Muerte the appropriate place to break the news.

Culebra reads the answer in my hesitation and pushes back from the table. "Come my friend," he says to Max. "I will take you to the tunnels. You will be safe. Stay as long as you need to."

Max looks to me and I see the question in his eyes. I touch a hand to his cheek. "I have to go. David is waiting. Besides, you need to rest."

He doesn't argue, a bad sign. He simply places his own hand over mine and kisses my cheek. "I'll see you soon."

His expression says something different and it's a weight on my heart. I don't let go of his hand. "You haven't told me what you're doing here. What is happening with Martinez?"

Once again, he avoids the question, dropping my hand and taking a step away. "I'll see you soon," he repeats, motioning to Culebra that he's ready to go.

I watch them cross the bar and disappear into the back. Indecision and concern for Max gives me pause. Maybe I should stay. Max is in trouble, that's obvious. What isn't obvious is why. I've never seen Max look so lost. And he's keeping something from me.

Still, I understand that in his line of work, you need to keep secrets.

And look what I'm hiding from him.

It doesn't make it easy to leave him, though, or keep my anxiety for him from growing.

I can't help Max if I don't know what kind of trouble he's in. He may not yet be willing to tell me, but I bet I know someone who can find out.

I LEAVE THE BAR AND HEAD BACK TO SAN DIEGO. I told Culebra that I was seeing Williams this morning. Warren Williams is San Diego's chief of police. Only he's so much more than that. Williams is a vampire, a very old vampire, who also happens to be San Diego's chief of police. The real-life, honest-to-god chief of police.

For weeks now, I've hauled my butt out of bed at four thirty to join him at his unofficial office in Balboa Park, a kind of secret headquarters for San Diego's supernatural community. I've started working for him as part of his "Watcher" brigade. We keep an eye on the supernatural community and step in when necessary to protect both creatures like myself and our human counterparts. Sometimes we do just what our name implies, watch, but other times…

I park in front of the Museum of Art and start up El Prado. It's a spooky place in the cold dark of early morning. The only thing breaking the shadows is the dim fluorescence of tall streetlamps bordering the parking lot. But fog snakes around the top of the lights and slithers at my feet. Even the towers and ornate cornices cast ghostly images on the walkway. Vamps aren't afraid of the dark. Exactly. But since becoming one, I am acutely aware that there really are things that go bump in the night. I quicken my pace.

Hide in plain sight.

The phrase pops into my head as I approach the mystical waterfall that separates the entrance to the underground hideaway from an unsuspecting public. I step through, not entirely a pleasant sensation unless you like walking through cold, wet spider webs. I don't know much about the magic that makes it work, but I do know that once on the other side, I'm invisible to anyone walking past.

I fish around in the bottom of my bag for the shiny brass key that allows me to open the door I'm now facing. On the other side is a reception area with a desk on which sits a computer. A few keystrokes and the entire "office" turns into an elevator that whisks me downward.

No matter how many times I do this, I'm amazed every time. It's Mission Impossible meets Stargate.