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that warmed me. “Ziggy’s not my son. But I can see where you’d get that impression. He’s a…he’s a friend.”
    A friend? I was hip. I could read between the lines. It figured that the first decent guy I’d met in this city was gay. “He’s a little young for you, don’t you think?”
    An embarrassed smile curved Nathan’s lips. “I’m not a homosexual, Carrie. Ziggy’s my blood donor. I watch out for him, that’s all.”
    That was the first time he’d used my name instead of addressing me as Doctor or Miss Ames. In his thick accent—I was fairly certain he was Scottish—my generic, first-pickfrom-the-baby-name-book moniker sounded exotic and almost sensual. I wondered if he could sense the attraction I felt, the heat coursing through my blood. If he did, he had the courtesy not to comment on it. I was grateful for that. “So why did he try to kill me? I mean, if you’re a vampire, and he knows it and gives you his blood and everything, what’s his beef with me?”
    Nathan sipped from his mug. “It’s complicated.”
    I glanced at the clock on the wall. “I’ve got a few hours.”
    He seemed to consider his response for a moment. Setting his cup aside, he braced his elbows on the table and covered his face with his hands. “Listen, you seem like a real nice girl, but there’s something I have to ask you, and it’s a little personal.”
    Despite the ominous tone of the question, I nodded. At this point, I wanted answers. I’d fill out a complete medical history if he asked. “Shoot.”
    “I followed your story in the papers very closely and I have some concerns. Namely, why you were in the morgue that night.” When his eyes met mine, I saw the real question there.
    “You think I did this on purpose?”
    He shrugged, all compassion and friendliness gone from his face. “You tell me.”
    I had spent the past month in a haze of depression, deprived of normal life by a mysterious illness I couldn’t shake. My bones ached twenty-four hours a day. My head throbbed at the faintest glimmer of light. If I was indeed a vampire, I certainly wasn’t living out the posh existence of a Count Dracula or a Lestat de Lioncourt. I was in a living hell, certainly not by choice.
    “Please,” he said quietly. “I need to know.”
    I could have slapped him. “No! What kind of freak do you think I am?”
    He shrugged. “There are some people out there, sick people, who want to escape their lives. Maybe they’ve had some sort of trauma, an illness, the loss of a loved one.” He looked me dead in the eyes. “The loss of your parents.”
    “How do you know about my parents?” I asked through tightly clenched teeth. I hadn’t spoken about them since the car accident that had killed them. They’d been on their way to visit me at college. Guilt had kept me from opening up about them. No one, save my distant, remaining relatives in Oregon—many of whom I’d met for the first time at the

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    funeral—knew anything about them or the circumstances of their death.
    “I have connections,” he said, as if we were discussing how he’d obtained courtside Lakers’ tickets instead of how he’d invaded my privacy. He actually had the nerve to reach across the table and take my hand. “I know what it’s like to lose someone. Believe me. I can see why you’d want—”
    “I didn’t want this!”
    I hadn’t meant to scream, but it felt good. I wanted to do it again. The ugliness and horror of the past month seemed to swell inside me, pushing me beyond the limits of my selfcontrol.
    “Carrie, please—” he tried again, but I ignored him. My knees bumped the table as I stood, and Nathan’s mug toppled over, splashing warm blood across the tabletop. The sight held a sick fascination for me, and in a flash I saw a clear image of myself leaning over and licking it up. I shook my head to destroy the vision.
    “I