"We can pay you. How much do you want?"

I looked but couldn't tell if she was joking or not. "No charge," I told her. "That way I can leave when things get scary."

She didn't laugh. I was pretty sure Amber used to have a sense of humor. Maybe.

"Look," I told her. "Take a deep breath. Find the shoes for me, and go put your rolls in the oven."

She did take a deep breath, and it seemed to help.

When I went back to my room, Chad was there again with his notebook. He was staring at the walking stick on my bed. I hadn't brought it with me, but it had come anyway. I wished I could ask it what it wanted from me.

I picked it up and waited until he was looking at me so he could read my lips. "This is what I use to beat problem children with."

He clutched his notebook tighter, so I guessed his lipreading skills were up to par. I put the stick back on the bed. "What did you want?"

He turned his notebook around and showed me a newspaper article that had been cut out and was taped to a page of his notebook. "Alpha Werewolf's Girlfriend Kills Attacker" it said. There was a picture of me looking battered and dazed. I didn't remember anyone taking pictures, but there were large chunks of that night I was pretty shaky on.

"Yes," I said, like my stomach didn't suddenly hurt. "Old news."

He turned the page, and I saw he had another observation for me. "There R no vampyrs." I guessed spelling wasn't his strong suit. Even at ten, I'd been able to spell "are."

"Okay, thanks," I said. "Good to know. I guess I'll go home tomorrow."

He dropped his hands to his sides, the notebook swaying back and forth with irritation like a cat's tail. He knew sarcasm when he heard it, even if he was lip-reading it.

"Don't worry, kid," I told him more gently. "I'm not a part of the plot to send you off to kid-prison. If I don't see anything, it doesn't mean that there's nothing to see. And I'll tell your father so, too."

He blinked his eyes furiously, hugged his notebook again. He lifted his chin—a smaller, less-stubborn version of his mother's. And he left.

AMBER TROTTED UP THE STAIRS DOUBLE TIME AND waved to me as she went past. I heard her knock, then open a door. "You need to clean up, too," she told her son. "You don't have to eat with us—there's a plate in the microwave—but I don't want you scuttling around trying to be unseen, either. You know how that irritates your father. So comb your hair, wash your hands and face." I stripped off my clothes and pulled on the purple dress. It fit just fine—a little tight in the shoulders and snugger in the hips than I preferred, but when I looked at it in the full-length mirror, it looked just fine.

Amber, Char, and I had always been able to trade clothes with each other.

The heels were higher than was comfortable, but as long as we were staying in the house, they should be all right. Char's feet had been smaller than Amber's and mine. I brushed out my hair again, then French-braided it. A touch of lipstick and eyeliner, and I was good to go.

I wished it was Adam I was about to eat with instead of Amber, her jerk of a husband, and some important client. It was enough to make me wish I had a plate in the microwave, too.

NEITHER OF THE TWO MEN WHO ENTERED THE HOUSE was handsome. The shorter man was slightly balding, with plump hands that had three thick gold rings on them. His suit was off-the-rack, but the rack had been expensive. His eyes were pale, pale blue, almost as pale as Samuel's wolf eyes.

The resemblance made me want to like him. He stood by almost shyly as the other man hugged Amber.

"Hey, sweetie," Amber's husband said and, to my surprise, there was honest warmth in his voice.

"Thank you for fixing dinner for us on such short notice."

Corban Wharton was striking rather than good-looking. His nose was too long for his broad face. His eyes were dark and wide-set—and smiling. There was something solid and reassuring about him. He was the kind of person that you'd want beside you in a courtroom. When he looked at me, he frowned briefly, as if trying to place who I was.

"You must be Mercedes Thompson," he said, holding out his hand.

He had a good handshake, a politician's handshake—firm and dry.

"Call me Mercy," I said. "Everyone does."

He nodded. "Mercy, this is my friend and client Jim Blackwood. Jim—Mercy Thompson, my wife's friend who is visiting us this week."

Jim was talking to Amber and took just an instant to turn his attention back to Corban and me.

Jim Blackwood. James Blackwood. How many James Black-woods were there in Spokane, I wondered in dumb panic. Five or six? But I knew—even though the strong cologne he wore kept me from scenting vampire—I knew I wasn't going to be lucky.

He'd think I smelled like I had dogs, Bran had assured me. And even if he didn't, even if he knew what I was—I was just visiting. He couldn't take offense at that, right?

I knew better. Vampires could take offense at anything they liked.

"Mr. Blackwood," I greeted him, when he looked away from Amber. Keep it simple. I didn't know if vampires could sense lies like the wolves could, but I wasn't going to say, "It's very good to meet you," or something similar when I was wishing myself a hundred miles away.

I did my best to keep a social smile on my face while stupid thoughts began to pile up. How was he going to eat with us? Vampires didn't. Not that I'd ever seen. What were the chances of a vampire's showing up and it not being some plot of Marsilia's?

Blackwood hadn't sounded like a vampire who would do anyone's bidding.

"Call me Jim," he told me, just a hint of a British accent shading his voice. "I'm sorry to intrude on your visit, but we had some urgent business this afternoon, and Corban insisted on bringing me home."

His round face was merry, and his handshake was even more practiced than Corban's had been. If it weren't for that little talk I'd had with Bran, I'd never have known what he was.

"Shall we go eat now?" Amber suggested, calm and in control now that the preparations were finished.

"It's ready and not going to get better if it sits around. I'm afraid I kept it simple."

Simple was pepper steak over rice with salads and fresh rolls followed by homemade apple pie.

Somehow, the food disappeared from the vampire's plate. I never saw him eat or touch his plate—though I kept half an eye on it with morbid fascination. Maybe a little hope. If I'd seen even a single bite go in his mouth, then I'd have believed him to be just what he seemed.

I stayed quiet while the men talked business—mostly contract language and 401(k)s—and I was very happy to stay unnoticed. Amber slipped in a sentence here and there, just enough to keep the conversation going. I heard Chad sneak by the dining room and into the kitchen. After a while he left again.

"Very good meal as always," the vampire told Amber. "Beautiful, charming—and a fine cook. As I keep telling Corban, I am going to steal you one of these days." I felt a chill go down my spine—he wasn't lying—but Corban and Amber just laughed as if it were an old joke. Just then, he looked at me. "You've been awfully quiet tonight. Corban tells me you went to school with Amber and you're from Kennewick.

What is it you do there?"

"I fix things," I mumbled to my plate.

"Things?" He sounded intrigued, just the opposite of what I'd hoped.

"Cars. Meet Mercedes the VW mechanic," said Amber with a touch of the sharpness that had been her trademark in the old days. "But I bet I can still get her going on the royal families of Europe or the name of Hitler's German shepherd." She smiled at James Blackwood, the Monster who kept his territory free of vampires or anything else that might challenge him. A coyote wouldn't be much of a challenge.