I know I'm dead. He's got me. I can't believe I'm not even wearing a crucifix-I could have made one in about thirty seconds with two pencils and a rubber band. But no, I had to have my emotional meltdown and abandon Charlie with all our monster-hunting gear, then throw my rebellious little hissy-fit after Stoker dropped me off. God, I'm so stupid I deserve to die.

Which is good, because I'm about to.

"I know exactly who I am, Ms. Valchek," my erstwhile employer says. "My name is Hondo Isamu. I am oyabun of the Sapporo yakuza clan. I am one thousand, four hundred and seventy-two years old, and in all that time no one has caused me more displeasure than you and your cohorts."

Cohorts? I have cohorts? Some part of my brain that isn't slowly dying from a lack of oxygen is gibbering at me frantically. I really wish it would slow down, because I can't understand most of what it's saying. Something about screaming eskimos?

"I am a patient man," Isamu says softly. "To kill a hated enemy once they are in your power is not something that should be done in haste. I would much prefer to kill you by inches, over many months. But I find myself trapped in a strange place, without access to my usual resources. Thus, I shall restrict myself to getting the necessary information from you to escape. Answer swiftly, and you will die the same way."

He favors me with another smile. "But you shall refuse, of course. The Bloodhound is not so easily broken. My inquiries will be met with your usual jibes, and I will respond accordingly. Though much less verbally."

He tosses me aside. One handed, off balance, and seated, he still manages to lift me out of my seat and pitch me over the counter eight feet away with little discernable effort. I think he was aiming for the counter itself-which would have really hurt-and actually misjudged his own strength.

I sail across the Formica and smash into the wall just below the pick-up window-hitting hard enough to make the order bell give off a tinny little ring-before falling to the floor behind the counter. I'm a little shaken up and my shoulder hurts, but I don't think anything's broken. Yet.

There's a mop in a bucket beside me. I grab the handle of the mop and use it to haul myself upright, pretending I'm more hurt than I actually am. I'm not surprised when Isamu lands on the counter in front of me as agilely as a cat. I keep a firm grip on the mop.

He grabs me with both hands-by my shirt this time-lifting my feet off the ground. "You disappoint me, Bloodhound. I remember you being quite the wit." He actually pauses, waiting for my reply.

"Please don't kill me," I whisper.

His lip curls in disgust. "Can it be? As much as I detest you, I must admit that I always held your fiery spirit in high regard. To kill you now seems ... unworthy. I want you to perish cursing my name, Bloodhound. To die as the warrior you are, not some pathetic waitress. Perhaps you need further encouragement...."

He throws me again, this time back toward the booths. I land on top of a table and smack my head against the wall pretty hard-but the mop stays in my hand.

Pain throbs through my skull. My shoulder aches. He's not going to stop until I'm unconscious, and then he'll rip open my throat and gorge himself while I bleed out.

The fuck he will.

There's a steel post jutting up from the corner of the booth, with a few metal pegs near the top to hang coats or hats from. I get a firm grip on the mop's handle and swing it as hard as I can at the post, the point of impact just above the mop's head. Thankfully, the bucket was half full of water and the mop head is soaking wet; the weight adds enough kinetic energy to snap the wooden handle near the bottom. Dirty suds spray through the air and spatter against the counter.

Now I have a spear. A wooden spear.

The booth tables are bolted to the floor, so they're nice and sturdy. I get to my feet on the tabletop, holding my improvised weapon in both hands. From his perch on the counter, Isamu grins at me. "Ah. Does the Bloodhound bare her fangs at last?"

I shift my grip, spreading my hands farther apart. I bring the mop handle down and my knee up, snapping the handle into two equal lengths. I drop into a combat stance, one in each hand. "Now I've got fangs. And they're a lot longer than yours, Yak-boy."

I'm back.

It's that sudden, and that complete. I know who I am. I know where I came from. I know who my friends are, and who Isamu is.

But most of all, I know what I can do.

A little voice is talking in the back of my head. But it isn't whispering You must be crazy or This isn't really happening or You're out of your depth. In fact, it isn't whispering at all. It's too gleeful for that.

And what it's saying is: Please do something stupid please do something stupid, please please PLEASE leap toward me like a big, overconfident moron so I can introduce a stake to your left ventricle while you're still hanging in midair like an idiot balloon.

Hello, brain. I missed you.

But Isamu doesn't do that. He just jumps down from the counter, then unties his apron and pulls it off. He's wearing a blue Mickey Mouse T-shirt underneath. "Come on, then," he says, gesturing. "We shall see if you are as formidable as you believe yourself to be-"

I run.

Well, jump might be more accurate. And not toward Isamu, either; I'm traveling over the line of booths, using the tops of the seats and the tables as stepping stones. Staying on the high ground, but forcing Isamu to either follow or try to block me. I know how fast pires are, but Isamu-this version of Isamu-is newly minted; despite his claims of remembering exactly who he is, he's still getting used to his increased abilities. The two conditions contradict each other, sure, but that's how magic usually works.

Hello, magic. I still hate you.

But at least I understand you. Okay, not really, but enough to know a few basic guidelines-including that different realities often have different magical rules. For instance, in Thropirelem lycanthropes have no problem with religious items like holy water; in fact, the Catholic Church is mostly made up of thropes. I asked about that once, and nobody could give me a satisfactory answer; the best guess was that once there were more supernaturals than human beings, faith-based weaponry was no longer effective against creatures of the night.

But according to Azura, this world doesn't have its own thropes. Or pires.

I get to the end of the booths. Isamu, as I expected, keeps pace with me. We're in the corner now, where there's a little alcove formed by the dead jukebox and the far wall.

"I'm going to turn you into what you fear and hate most," Isamu growls. "A monster, just like me."

"Yeah? Cross your heart?"

I bring the two sticks together into a very familiar shape. Isamu's reaction is everything I hoped for: he howls, throws his arms up as if blinded and staggers backward into the little alcove. "Noooo!" he screeches. "What-what are you doing? What is that? Keep it away from me!"

I hop down from the table, forcing him even farther back. I know that the instant my two sticks stop forming a crucifix he's going to attack. I know he's about to shove the jukebox out of his way or try to leapfrog right over me. I know he's much faster than me.

And because I know all these things, I don't hesitate.

The jagged end of the first stick goes into his right eye. The other stabs into his chest, sliding under the breastbone and directly through his heart.

On Thropirelem, a pire's body instantly becomes its true age, either rotting away or crumbling into dust. I'm not sure how things work here, but I'm a little surprised when Isamu bursts into flames. I step back, leaving my improvised escrima sticks where they are.

"Escrima," I say to myself softly as I watch Isamu's burning corpse slump to the floor. "Not screaming eskimo. Escrima."

Then I get a fire extinguisher and put out the flaming heap of bones that used to be my boss. I consider making a bad pun about him being the one getting fired, and decide I'm above that sort of thing.

Besides, Charlie isn't here.

I remember Thropirelem. Not everything, but ...

I remember watching crowds of drunken thropes partying in the streets during their monthly celebration while I drank scotch on a rooftop patio under a full moon.

I remember babysitting a three-month-old pire baby and feeding her bottles of pink milk.

I remember swing dancing with a golem in a pin striped suit and stealing his fedora halfway through.

I remember pire businessmen wearing smoked goggles, calfskin gloves, and full face masks as they strolled through the financial district at high noon.

I remember when my dog-were would turn into a paunchy, middle-aged man when the sun went down, and how he still liked to lick people's faces.

I remember all the people who have tried to kill me, or worse.

I remember my partner.

I remember the man who loves me.

And I decide I should really go see him before I do anything else.

Jimmy Zhang is still lurking out there somewhere, and it's full dark now. I don't care. I find a broom in the back and do the same thing to it I did to the mop, then hide the pieces in the sleeves of my jacket. If Zhang jumps me, he's in for a big surprise.

It's strange how empty the place is. This time of day I'd expect to find Mayor Leo, Joe Silver, or Don Prince here, at the very least. I wonder where Therese is.

I wonder where everyone is.

The streets are empty, too. I look up into the sky and realize that a huge, dark mass of clouds has bloomed there like a malignant growth. Kansas thunderstorms can be loud, drenching, violent things, and I really don't want to get caught outside in one.

Sure. Except I've never been in one before, have I?

I stop for a second, dizzy with cognitive dissonance. I can clearly remember many such storms, the sound of the rain hammering at the roof and walls, the ear-splitting crack of the thunder, the veins of lightning sparking across the sky. I'll bet those memories are real enough; they're just not mine. Stolen by Ahaseurus from some other Jace, I'll bet, and stuck in my head to convince me I was someone I wasn't. If Ahaseurus weren't already dead, I'd kill him all over again.

I hurry toward the B&B, keeping a wary eye out for Zhang. When I knew him, he was the head of a Chinese Triad based out of Vancouver and a powerful shaman; I had no idea what abilities, if any, he retained in this world.

I charge into the house without knocking and sprint up the stairs. The door to Cassiar's room is closed; I pause, then knock. "Dav-Cassiar? Are you there?"

"Just a moment." There's the sound of a lock disengaging and the door opens. Cassiar looks at me quizzically. "Ah, Ms. Valchek. How are you-"

I grab him and kiss him.

When you do that to someone, there's always a moment of shock. Most people freeze up. Then they respond, either negatively or positively.

Cassiar's reaction is ... cautious. Willing, but tentative. More polite than passionate.

I break the kiss, pull back, and study his face. He blinks at me, clearly nonplussed. I sigh and slip past him into the room.

"That was ... unexpected," he says, closing the door. "Jace, are you-"

"I'm fine," I say. "The question is, how are you? Or rather, who are you?"

"I'm exactly who I said I am: David Cassiar. I can show you identification-"

"Your name isn't Cassiar, it's Cassius. Your memories have been tampered with, just like mine. You're not a monster-hunter, you're the head of the National Security Agency on an alternate world. And a centuries-old vampire."

To his credit, he doesn't try to edge closer to the door. But he doesn't abruptly straighten up with a surge of realization, either. Instead, he studies me carefully, then glances to the side with a look of consideration on his face. "That's an intriguing scenario," he says. "Can you provide me with some hard data for corroboration?"

Damn it, that's exactly what Cassius would say.

"We had a relationship?" he asks.

"Yes! What do you remember-"

"That's deduction, not recall. Attractive women rarely show up at my door and throw themselves into my arms without good reason." He smiles. "Tell me more."

"Okay. Here goes." I sit down on the edge of the bed, hoping he'll join me, but he stays on his feet. Not a good sign. I take a deep breath, and then try to sum it up for him in a way that won't sound completely schizophrenic. "You and I are from a parallel world. You're my boss and my lover. The head of the cult you're tracking? He's actually a sorcerer named Ahaseurus. He kidnapped both of us and brought us here, mainly to torture me. Everything you said about the Gallowsman is still true, but the reason Longinus-Ahaseurus, I mean-picked me as his victim is because he well and truly hates me."

"I see. And why am I here?"

"Bait. See, you were on Ahaseurus's trail when he captured you. He wanted me to come after you, which I did-but I didn't have any more luck than you did. He tampered with our memories, so we're not even aware of the cage he's put us in."

He nods. "If I were the head of the NSA, I would have access to considerable resources, wouldn't I? It's difficult to believe I would let myself be trapped like that."

"You were off the grid. Hunting Ahaseurus for me, not the NSA. He was the only one who could get me back to my native reality-I'm not from the same world as you are. I started having weird dreams, which were you trying to contact me from this reality. That's the last clear memory I have. I don't remember what I did to find you, or how Ahaseurus captured me. But I do know that most of my memories of this town are false; I didn't grow up here, I'm not even from Kansas."

"And you know this how?"

I tell him about Azura. And my magic TV. And my fry cook boss who's really a vampire yakuza gangster, or was until I killed him with a mop handle. It sounds crazier and crazier, until even I'm having a hard time believing it. "Look, I know how it sounds. I know that the simplest and easiest explanation is that I'm just nuts, a delusional woman with an elaborate fantasy. But you know the Gallowsman is real. You said you've seen evidence that pires and thropes-sorry, vampires and werewolves-used to exist on this world. Is it so hard to believe someone might have found a way to bring them back?"

He's quiet for a moment. Thinking. "No, it isn't," he finally says. "Until now, I suppose I've always thought of the supernatural in terms of less physical dimensions, like the astral plane or spiritual realms. But actual, concrete, alternate realities ... It's a lot to take in. I'm willing to consider that what you say is accurate, but there's one point I'm having trouble with."

My heart sinks. "Which is?"

"You say you've recovered your true memories-"

"Some. Not all."

"Why haven't I?" He shakes his head. "I'm sorry, Jace. I don't feel as if my life has been a lie, or that I've ever been anyone other than myself. A life which includes, by the way, a considerable amount of time spent in direct sunlight. If I were truly an ancient 'pire,' as you say, how could that be? Wouldn't a being as old and presumably experienced as that be harder to fool?"

I hate to admit it, but he's got some good points. And so far, none of them are on the ends of his teeth. "I needed a powerful emotional shock to wake me up; I thought the same might apply to you."

"Ergo the kiss."

"Yeah. It was worth a shot-believe it or not, I used the same trick to save your life once. And as far as the sunlight thing goes..." I touch the back of my head and wince. "Both the pires I've encountered so far seem to have been human until recently. Maybe that's my unreliable memory, too-but I don't think so. They both acted like newbies, like they weren't used to their new abilities and limitations yet. But at the same time, they were clearly recovering older, suppressed memories."

"An interesting contradiction."

It's not the only one, either. What I don't tell him is that Azura claimed Ahaseurus only brought a single pire and a single thrope across the dimensional divide with him: the master vampire and the alpha wolf, supposedly to create more like them.

Which suggests the master vampire is Cassius.

He's definitely masterly, and I know he was in Ahaseurus's clutches. But that's actually a vote against the idea-because, as Cassiar himself just said, a pire as old and cunning as he supposedly is would be difficult to brainwash. I've been inside Cassius's mind, and I know how formidable his mental prowess is; the only reason I was ever able to slip past his defenses was due to highly unusual circumstances.

"I don't know what the answer is," I admit. "The rules seem to be different here, too. On the real Thropirelem, there's no such thing as a 'master' vampire. I guess after centuries of propagation, whatever control the first pire exerted over those he turned got so attentuated it just faded away. But this place seems to have different supernatural restrictions...."

An idea occurs to me. A very simple, obvious idea. I let my hands droop down, so both my improvised stakes fall out of my sleeves and into my hands. "Tell me, Mr. Cassiar, what do you think of ... this!"

I bring both sticks up sharply, one across the other in a cross shape.

Cassiar stares at them. At me. Then he takes a step closer-and makes the same sign with his own arms.

"I think," he says gently, "that I'm not a vampire."