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to be drawn.
    Vicki deflated. Unfortunately, he was completely and absolutely and inarguably correct. She hated that—not so much that he was right, but that it left her no room for argument.
    And he knew it. Eyes crinkling at the corners, he shoved the book back into his pocket.
    Stepping forward, she brushed the overlong curl of dark brown hair back off his forehead and murmured, “Come evening, however, no one messes with me.”
    Lying in the coffinlike bed, vibrating along with the van’s six-cylinder, no-longer-entirely-to-company-specs engine, enclosed in a warm darkness so deep it draped over her like black velvet, Vicki could feel the sun. The flesh between her shoulders crawled. Two years a vampire and she still hadn’t gotten used to the approach of the day.
    â€œIt’s like that final instant, just before someone hits you from behind, when you know it’s going to happen and you can’t do a damned thing about it. Only it lasts longer.
 . . .”
    Celluci hadn’t been impressed by the analogy, and she supposed she couldn’t blame him—it didn’t impress her much either. While he’d pulled the van up under the security light and methodically checked for pinholes that might let in the sun, she’d almost gone crazy with the need to get under cover. He hadn’t listened when she’d told him she’d already checked, but then, he’d always believed she took foolish risks.
    Risks, she took.
    Foolish risks, never.
    Okay, hardly ever.
    Wondering why she was suddenly doing numbers from
HMS Pinafore
, she licked her lips and tasted the memory of Celluci’s mouth against hers. He’d wanted to wait for sunrise before he started driving, but Vicki’d insisted he start right after she closed herself up in her moving sanctuary. She didn’t think she could cope with both of them waiting for . . .
    . . . oblivion.
    At that hour of the morning, traffic was heading into Toronto, not out of it and, for all its disreputable appearance, the van handled well. Fully aware he would not be able to explain the apparent corpse in the back should he be stopped by the OPP, Celluci drove a careful five kilometers over the limit and resigned himself to being passed by nearly every other car on the highway.
    â€œGet your picture taken,” he muttered as an old and rusty K-car buzzed by him. Unfortunately, the new Ontario government had recently pulled the photo radar vans, insisting they’d shown no positive effects. Celluci had no idea where the idiots at Queen’s Park had gathered their information, but in his personal experience, the threat of the vans had kept paranoid drivers actually traveling at slightly less than the limit.
    He stopped at Barrie for breakfast and a chance to stretch his legs. A tractor trailer accident held him for an hour just outside Waubaushene and by the time he stopped for lunch at the Centennial Diner in Bigwood, he’d heard Sonny and Cher sing “I Got You Babe” on three different oldies stations and was wondering why he was putting himself through rock-and-roll hell for Henry-fucking-Fitzroy.
    â€œI should’ve tried harder to talk her out of it.” He yanked a tasseled toothpick out of his club sandwich. So what if there were no PI’s on the West Coast Fitzroy could trust. “How’s he supposed to make new friends if he never talks to strangers.”
    â€œIs anything wrong?”
    Celluci manufactured a smile and tossed it up to his teenage waitress. “No. Nothing’s wrong.” Watching her watch him on her way back to the kitchen, he sighed.
Great Not only does he expect Vicki to risk her life traveling across three quarters of the country, but now he’s got me talking to myself
.
    On the flyspecked radio above the pie rack, Sonny Bono once again declared his love in the face of everything they said.
    â€œWaWa?” Knuckles on her hips, Vicki