"Thanks," I whispered, thinking of my waiting stack with relish. "Big day, huh?"

"Apparently," he said drily, before disappearing into the locked cage that held the ma.n.u.scripts overnight. He returned with my stack of treasures. "Here you go. Seat number?"

"A4." It's where I always sat, in the far southeastern corner of the Selden End, where the natural light was best.

Mr. Johnson came scurrying toward me. "Ah, Dr. Bishop, we've put Professor Clairmont in A3. You might prefer to sit in A1 or A6." He shifted nervously from one foot to the other and pushed his gla.s.ses up, blinking at me through the thick gla.s.s.

I stared at him. "Professor Clairmont Clairmont?"

"Yes. He's working on the Needham papers and requested good light and room to spread out."

"Joseph Needham, the historian of Chinese science?" Somewhere around my solar plexus, my blood started to seethe.

"Yes. He was a biochemist, too, of course-hence Professor Clairmont's interest," Mr. Johnson explained, looking more fl.u.s.tered by the moment. "Would you like to sit in A1?"

"I'll take A6." The thought of sitting next to a vampire, even with an empty seat between us, was deeply unsettling. Sitting across from one in A4 was unthinkable, however. How could I concentrate, wondering what those strange eyes were seeing? Had the desks in the medieval wing been more comfortable, I would have parked myself under one of the gargoyles that guarded the narrow windows and braved Gillian Chamberlain's prim disapproval instead.

"Oh, that's splendid. Thank you for understanding." Mr. Johnson sighed with relief.

As I came into the light of the Selden End, my eyes narrowed. Clairmont looked immaculate and rested, his pale skin startling against his dark hair. This time his open-necked gray sweater had flecks of green, and his collar stood up slightly in the back. A peek under the table revealed charcoal gray trousers, matching socks, and black shoes that surely cost more than the average academic's entire wardrobe.

The unsettled feeling returned. What was Clairmont doing in the library? Why wasn't he in his lab?

Making no effort to m.u.f.fle my footsteps, I strode in the vampire's direction. Clairmont, seated diagonally across from me at the far end of the cl.u.s.ter of desks and seemingly oblivious to my approach, continued reading. I dumped my plastic bag and ma.n.u.scripts onto the s.p.a.ce marked A5, staking out the outer edges of my territory.

He looked up, brows arching in apparent surprise. "Dr. Bishop. Good morning."

"Professor Clairmont." It occurred to me that he'd overheard everything said about him at the reading room's entrance, given that he had the hearing of a bat. I refused to meet his eyes and started pulling individual items out of my bag, building a small fortification of desk supplies between me and the vampire. Clairmont watched until I ran out of equipment, then lowered his eyebrows in concentration and returned to his reading.

I took out the cord for my computer and disappeared under the desk to shove it into the power strip. When I righted myself, he was still reading but was also trying not to smile.

"Surely you'd be more comfortable in the northern end," I grumbled under my breath, rooting around for my list of ma.n.u.scripts.

Clairmont looked up, dilating pupils making his eyes suddenly dark. "Am I bothering you, Dr. Bishop?"

"Of course not," I said hastily, my throat closing at the sudden, sharp aroma of cloves that accompanied his words, "but I'm surprised you find a southern exposure comfortable."

"You don't believe everything you read, do you?" One of his thick, black eyebrows rose into the shape of a question mark.

"If you're asking whether I think you're going to burst into flames the moment the sunlight hits you, the answer is no." Vampires didn't burn at the touch of sunlight, nor did they have fangs. These were human myths. "But I've never met . . . someone like you someone like you who liked to bask in its glow either." who liked to bask in its glow either."

Clairmont's body remained still, but I could have sworn he was repressing a laugh. "How much direct experience have you had, Dr. Bishop, with 'someone like me'?"

How did he know I hadn't had much experience with vampires? Vampires had preternatural senses and abilities-but no supernatural ones, like mind reading or precognition. Those belonged to witches and, on rare occasions, could sometimes crop up in daemons, too. This was the natural order, or so my aunt had explained when I was a child and couldn't sleep for fear that a vampire would steal my thoughts and fly out the window with them.

I studied him closely. "Somehow, Professor Clairmont, I don't think years of experience would tell me what I need to know right now."

"I'd be happy to answer your question, if I can," he said, closing his book and placing it on the desk. He waited with the patience of a teacher listening to a belligerent and not very bright student.

"What is it that you you want?" want?"

Clairmont sat back in his chair, his hands resting easily on the arms. "I want to examine Dr. Needham's papers and study the evolution of his ideas on morphogenesis."

"Morphogenesis?"

"The changes to embryonic cells that result in differentiation-"

"I know what morphogenesis is, Professor Clairmont. That's not what I'm asking."

His mouth twitched. I crossed my arms protectively across my chest.

"I see." He tented his long fingers, resting his elbows on the chair. "I came into Bodley's Library last night to request some ma.n.u.scripts. Once inside, I decided to look around a bit-I like to know my environment, you understand, and don't often spend time here. There you were in the gallery. And of course what I saw after that was quite unexpected." His mouth twitched again.

I flushed at the memory of how I'd used magic just to get a book. And I tried not to be disarmed by his old-fashioned use of "Bodley's Library" but was not entirely successful.

Careful, Diana, I warned myself. I warned myself. He's trying to charm you. He's trying to charm you.

"So your story is that this has just been a set of odd coincidences, culminating in a vampire and a witch sitting across from each other and examining ma.n.u.scripts like two ordinary readers?"

"I don't think anyone who took the time to examine me carefully would think I was ordinary, do you?" Clairmont's already quiet voice dropped to a mocking whisper, and he tilted forward in his chair. His pale skin caught the light and seemed to glow. "But otherwise, yes. It's just a series of coincidences, easily explained."

"I thought scientists didn't believe in coincidences anymore."

He laughed softly. "Some have to believe in them."

Clairmont kept staring at me, which was unnerving in the extreme. The female attendant rolled the reading room's ancient wooden cart up to the vampire's elbow, boxes of ma.n.u.scripts neatly arrayed on the trolley's shelves.

The vampire dragged his eyes from my face. "Thank you, Valerie. I appreciate your a.s.sistance."

"Of course, Professor Clairmont," Valerie said, gazing at him raptly and turning pink. The vampire had charmed her with no more than a thank-you. I snorted. "Do let us know if you need anything else," she said, returning to her bolt-hole by the entrance.

Clairmont picked up the first box, undid the string with his long fingers, and glanced across the table. "I don't want to keep you from your work."

Matthew Clairmont had taken the upper hand. I'd had enough dealings with senior colleagues to recognize the signs and to know that any response would only make the situation worse. I opened my computer, punched the power b.u.t.ton with more force than necessary, and picked up the first of my ma.n.u.scripts. Once the box was unfastened, I placed its leather-bound contents on the cradle in front of me.

Over the next hour and a half, I read the first pages at least thirty times. I started at the beginning, reading familiar lines of poetry attributed to George Ripley that promised to reveal the secrets of the philosopher's stone. Given the surprises of the morning, the poem's descriptions of how to make the Green Lion, create the Black Dragon, and concoct a mystical blood from chemical ingredients were even more opaque than usual.

Clairmont, however, got a prodigious amount done, covering pages of creamy paper with rapid strokes of his Montblanc Meisterstuck mechanical pencil. Every now and again, he'd turn over a sheet with a rustle that set my teeth on edge and begin once more.

Occasionally Mr. Johnson drifted through the room, making sure no one was defacing the books. The vampire kept writing. I glared at both of them.

At 10:45, there was a familiar tingle when Gillian Chamberlain bustled into the Selden End. She started toward me-no doubt to tell me what a splendid time she'd had at the Mabon dinner. Then she saw the vampire and dropped her plastic bag full of pencils and paper. He looked up and stared until she scampered back to the medieval wing.

At 11:10, I felt the insidious pressure of a kiss on my neck. It was the confused, caffeine-addicted daemon from the music reference room. He was repeatedly twirling a set of white plastic headphones around his fingers, then unwinding them to send them spinning through the air. The daemon saw me, nodded at Matthew, and sat at one of the computers in the center of the room. A sign was taped to the screen: OUT OF ORDER. TECHNICIAN CALLED. He remained there for the next several hours, glancing over his shoulder and then at the ceiling periodically as if trying to figure out where he was and how he'd gotten there.

I returned my attention to George Ripley, Clairmont's eyes cold on the top of my head.

At 11:40, icy patches bloomed between my shoulder blades.

This was the last straw. Sarah always said that one in ten beings was a creature, but in Duke Humfrey's this morning the creatures outnumbered humans five to one. Where had they all come from?

I stood abruptly and whirled around, frightening a cherubic, tonsured vampire with an armful of medieval missals just as he was lowering himself into a chair that was much too small for him. He let out a squeak at the sudden, unwanted attention. At the sight of Clairmont, he turned a whiter shade than I thought was possible, even for a vampire. With an apologetic bow, he scuttled off to the library's dimmer recesses.

Over the course of the afternoon, a few humans and three more creatures entered the Selden End.

Two unfamiliar female vampires who appeared to be sisters glided past Clairmont and came to a stop among the local-history shelves under the window, picking up volumes about the early settlement of Bedfordshire and Dorset and writing notes back and forth on a single pad of paper. One of them whispered something, and Clairmont's head swiveled so fast it would have snapped the neck of a lesser being. He made a soft hissing sound that ruffled the hair on my own neck. The two exchanged looks and departed as quietly as they had appeared.

The third creature was an elderly man who stood in a full beam of sunlight and stared raptly at the leaded windows before turning his eyes to me. He was dressed in familiar academic garb-brown tweed jacket with suede elbow patches, corduroy pants in a slightly jarring tone of green, and a cotton shirt with a b.u.t.ton-down collar and ink stains on the pocket-and I was ready to dismiss him as just another Oxford scholar before my skin tingled to tell me that he was a witch. Still, he was a stranger, and I returned my attention to my ma.n.u.script.

A gentle sensation of pressure on the back of my skull made it impossible to keep reading, however. The pressure flitted to my ears, growing in intensity as it wrapped around my forehead, and my stomach clenched in panic. This was no longer a silent greeting, but a threat. Why, though, would he be threatening me?

The wizard strolled toward my desk with apparent casualness. As he approached, a voice whispered in my now-throbbing head. It was too faint to distinguish the words. I was sure it was coming from this male witch, but who on earth was he?

My breath became shallow. Get the h.e.l.l out of my head, Get the h.e.l.l out of my head, I said fiercely if silently, touching my forehead. I said fiercely if silently, touching my forehead.

Clairmont moved so quickly I didn't see him round the desks. In an instant he was standing with one hand on the back of my chair and the other resting on the surface in front of me. His broad shoulders were curved around me like the wings of a falcon shielding his prey.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"I'm fine," I replied with a shaking voice, utterly confused as to why a vampire would need to protect me from another witch.

In the gallery above us, a reader craned her neck to see what all the fuss was about. She stood, her brow creased. Two witches and a vampire were impossible for a human to ignore.

"Leave me alone. The humans have noticed us," I said between clenched teeth.

Clairmont straightened to his full height but kept his back to the witch and his body angled between us like an avenging angel.

"Ah, my mistake," the witch murmured from behind Clairmont. "I thought this seat was available. Excuse me." Soft steps retreated into the distance, and the pressure on my head gradually subsided.

A slight breeze stirred as the vampire's cold hand reached toward my shoulder, stopped, and returned to the back of the chair. Clairmont leaned over. "You look quite pale," he said in his soft, low voice. "Would you like me to take you home?"

"No." I shook my head, hoping he would go sit down and let me gather my composure. In the gallery the human reader kept a wary eye on us.

"Dr. Bishop, I really think you should let me take you home."

"No!" My voice was louder than I intended. It dropped to a whisper. "I am not being driven out of this library-not by you, not by anyone."

Clairmont's face was disconcertingly close. He took a slow breath in, and once again there was a powerful aroma of cinnamon and cloves. Something in my eyes convinced him I was serious, and he drew away. His mouth flattened into a severe line, and he returned to his seat.

We spent the remainder of the afternoon in a state of detente. I tried to read beyond the second folio of my first ma.n.u.script, and Clairmont leafed through sc.r.a.ps of paper and closely written notebooks with the attention of a judge deciding on a capital case.

By three o'clock my nerves were so frayed that I could no longer concentrate. The day was lost.

I gathered my scattered belongings and returned the ma.n.u.script to its box.

Clairmont looked up. "Going home, Dr. Bishop?" His tone was mild, but his eyes glittered.

"Yes," I snapped.

The vampire's face went carefully blank.

Every creature in the library watched me on my way out-the threatening wizard, Gillian, the vampire monk, even the daemon. The afternoon attendant at the collection desk was a stranger to me, because I never left at this time of day. Mr. Johnson pushed his chair back slightly, saw it was me, and looked at his watch in surprise.

In the quadrangle I pushed the gla.s.s doors of the library open and drank in the fresh air. It would take more than fresh air, though, to turn the day around.

Fifteen minutes later I was in a pair of fitted, calf-length pants that stretched in six different directions, a faded New College Boat Club tank, and a fleece pullover. After tying on my sneakers I set off for the river at a run.

When I reached it, some of my tension had already abated. "Adrenaline poisoning," one of my doctors had called these surges of anxiety that had troubled me since childhood. The doctors explained that, for reasons they could not understand, my body seemed to think it was in a constant state of danger. One of the specialists my aunt consulted explained earnestly that it was a biochemical leftover from hunter-gatherer days. I'd be all right so long as I rid my bloodstream of the adrenaline load by running, just as a frightened ibex would run from a lion.

Unfortunately for that doctor, I'd gone to the Serengeti with my parents as a child and had witnessed such a pursuit. The ibex lost. It had made quite an impression on me.

Since then I'd tried medication and meditation, but nothing was better for keeping panic at bay than physical activity. In Oxford it was rowing each morning before the college crews turned the narrow river into a thorough-fare. But the university was not yet in session, and the river would be clear this afternoon.

My feet crunched against the crushed gravel paths that led to the boathouses. I waved at Pete, the boatman who prowled around with wrenches and tubs of grease, trying to put right what the undergraduates mangled in the course of their training. I stopped at the seventh boathouse and bent over to ease the st.i.tch in my side before retrieving the key from the top of the light outside the boathouse doors.

Racks of white and yellow boats greeted me inside. There were big, eight-seated boats for the first men's crew, slightly leaner boats for the women, and other boats of decreasing quality and size. A sign hung from the bow of one shiny new boat that hadn't been rigged yet, instructing visitors that NO ONE MAY TAKE THE FRENCH LIEUTENANT'S WOMAN OUT OF THIS HOUSE WITHOUT THE PERMISSION OF THE NCBC PRESIDENT. The boat's name was freshly stenciled on its side in a Victorian-style script, in homage to the New College graduate who had created the character.

At the back of the boathouse, a whisper of a boat under twelve inches wide and more than twenty-five feet long rested in a set of slings positioned at hip level. G.o.d bless Pete, G.o.d bless Pete, I thought. He'd taken to leaving the scull on the floor of the boathouse. A note resting on the seat read, "College training next Monday. Boat will be back in racks." I thought. He'd taken to leaving the scull on the floor of the boathouse. A note resting on the seat read, "College training next Monday. Boat will be back in racks."

I kicked off my sneakers, picked two oars with curving blades from the stash near the doors, and carried them down to the dock. Then I went back for the boat.

I plopped the scull gently into the water and put one foot on the seat to keep it from floating away while I threaded the oars into the oarlocks. Holding both oars in one hand like a pair of oversize chopsticks, I carefully stepped into the boat and pushed the dock with my left hand. The scull floated out onto the river.

Rowing was a religion for me, composed of a set of rituals and movements repeated until they became a meditation. The rituals began the moment I touched the equipment, but its real magic came from the combination of precision, rhythm, and strength that rowing required. Since my undergraduate days, rowing had instilled a sense of tranquillity in me like nothing else.

My oars dipped into the water and skimmed along the surface. I picked up the pace, powering through each stroke with my legs and feeling the water when my blade swept back and slipped under the waves. The wind was cold and sharp, cutting through my clothes with every stroke.

As my movements flowed into a seamless cadence, it felt as though I were flying. During these blissful moments, I was suspended in time and s.p.a.ce, nothing but a weightless body on a moving river. My swift little boat darted along, and I swung in perfect unison with the boat and its oars. I closed my eyes and smiled, the events of the day fading in significance.

The sky darkened behind my closed lids, and the booming sound of traffic overhead indicated that I'd pa.s.sed underneath the Donnington Bridge. Coming through into the sunlight on the other side, I opened my eyes-and felt the cold touch of a vampire's gaze on my sternum.

A figure stood on the bridge, his long coat flapping around his knees. Though I couldn't see his face clearly, the vampire's considerable height and bulk suggested that it was Matthew Clairmont. Again.

I swore and nearly dropped one oar. The City of Oxford dock was nearby. The notion of pulling an illegal maneuver and crossing the river so that I could smack the vampire upside his beautiful head with whatever piece of boat equipment was handy was very tempting. While formulating my plan, I spotted a slight woman standing on the dock wearing paint-stained overalls. She was smoking a cigarette and talking into a mobile phone.

This was not a typical sight for the City of Oxford boathouse.

She looked up, her eyes nudging my skin. A daemon. She twisted her mouth into a wolfish smile and said something into the phone.

This was just too weird. First Clairmont and now a host of creatures appearing whenever he did? Abandoning my plan, I poured my unease into my rowing.

I managed to get down the river, but the serenity of the outing had evaporated. Turning the boat in front of the Isis Tavern, I spotted Clairmont standing beside one of the pub's tables. He'd managed to get there from the Donnington Bridge-on foot-in less time than I'd done it in a racing scull.

Pulling hard on both oars, I lifted them two feet off the water like the wings of an enormous bird and glided straight into the tavern's rickety wooden dock. By the time I'd climbed out, Clairmont had crossed the twenty-odd feet of gra.s.s lying between us. His weight pushed the floating platform down slightly in the water, and the boat wiggled in adjustment.

"What the h.e.l.l do you think you're doing?" I demanded, stepping clear of the blade and across the rough planks to where the vampire now stood. My breath was ragged from exertion, my cheeks flushed. "Are you and your friends stalking stalking me?" me?"

Clairmont frowned. "They aren't my friends, Dr. Bishop."