I should, but I don't want to. I have the sudden, overwhelming feeling that it's going to be Zhang. Hello, Jace. I just thought I'd let you know that I'm going to be paying you a visit tonight. And after that, you and I will be together for a long, long time....

I hit the TALK button and put the phone to my ear. "Hello?"

"Jace Valchek?" I don't immediately recognize the voice, but it sounds naggingly familiar-like getting a call from someone you haven't talked to in years.

"Speaking. Who's this?"

"You don't know me, Ms. Valchek, but please don't hang up-I'm not a telephone solicitor. I'm calling from a bed-and-breakfast in Thropirelem, and I was wondering if you might have a few minutes to meet with me."

"About what?"

"About certain events that are happening in your town. Unusual, even distressing events."

He sounds educated, confident, friendly without being overly familiar. Not a salesman-someone in authority. Somebody used to telling people what to do and having them obey.

"Can you be ... a little more specific?"

"Not over the phone. But I'm sure you know what I'm talking about."

"Who are you?"

"I'm sorry; I should have introduced myself earlier. My name is David Cassiar."

Cassiar. Once again, I have the overwhelming feeling that I should know him-that I do know him, or at least who he is. "That name-I've heard it before."

"I have a certain reputation that surrounds me, but I assure you it's not deserved. Meet with me in person and you can see for yourself."

Now what? He sounds like he might have some answers-or at least be aware of what's going on-but I don't want him knowing where I live; I don't even want to be alone with him. "Okay, but it's got to be someplace public."

"How about a restaurant? I saw a diner on my way into town."

"Yeah, okay. When?"

"Let's say ... eight o'clock?"

"Fine. I'll see you there."

I hit the OFF button, then stand there looking at my phone like maybe it'll tell me more if I wait long enough.

"Who was that?" Charlie asks.

"Some guy named David Cassiar. Says he knows about what's happening, wants to get together to talk about it. Supposed to meet him at the diner tonight."

"Jace, the only people who know about this are either bad guys or in another dimension. Guess which one he has to be?"

"I know, I know. But we're meeting in public, and I've got you as my ace in the hole. Besides, I don't want to be trapped at home after dark."

"Why not? We could barricade the doors and windows-I think I could make this place pretty defensible, actually. And don't vampires have to have an invitation to enter a house?"

I grab the bear from him and take another swig, then screw the head back on. "Maybe, maybe not. We can't take for granted that it works exactly like the movies-and even if it does, which movies? They all seem to play with the rules. Not that it matters."

"What do you mean?"

"It doesn't matter how defensible a place is, if it also happens to be on fire."

"Good point."

"Our best shot is to go on the offensive. Go back to Lucky Foods with some wooden stakes, whatever garlic I've got in my spice drawer, and maybe an axe. Chopping Zhang's head off should definitely slow him down."

Charlie nods slowly. "I'm with you. We prepare, we arm ourselves, we go back in. But before we do-you have any idea what Zhang meant when he said he remembered you?"

I think back to that moment. The image of Zhang hanging in the air, bones glowing through his flesh, comes back to me so vividly I almost gasp.

"No," I say carefully. "No, I don't."

"He called you Bloodhound, too."

"Everybody in town knows about my obsession, Charlie. I think he was just trying to freak me out. Or maybe that was vampire humor."

"If you say so...."

There's a major flaw in our plan, of course. The window I smashed doesn't go unnoticed for long, and by the time we arrive with a bulging duffel bag slung over Charlie's shoulder, Sheriff Stoker is there, too.

"Jace. Charlie," he says. Yellow crime scene tape is already strung across the window. "Looks like we've got a regular crime wave happening."

"Hope nobody got hurt this time," I say.

"Just a steam cleaner." Stoker points to the machine lying on the sidewalk surrounded by shards of glass. "Funny thing is, it looks like this was pitched through the window from the inside."

"Ah, the wily steam cleaner," I say. "I've heard no prison can hold them."

"I'd say they broke in through the back," continues Stoker, "but the security gate was down and locked."

"Really?" Charlie says. "That's ... unusual."

"That it is. I'd like to ask Jimmy Zhang about it, but nobody can reach him."

"What about his truck?" I ask. "I mean, has anybody seen it?"

"Well, it's not here. That's about all I know at the moment."

Sheriff Stoker regards both of us calmly. A little too calmly. Any second now he's going to ask us what's in the duffel bag.

"Don't suppose you two heard anything?" he asks.

"Us?" I say. "We just got here. When did this happen, anyway? We've been watching a movie for the last hour."

"Short movie."

"Crappy movie. We gave up and went for a walk."

He nods, slowly. "Well, it's a nice day for it. Enjoy." He turns around and walks back over to the window, kneeling to peer at something on the ground. I hope it's not a Jace-sized footprint.

"Let's go," I murmur to Charlie.

We cut through the parking lot and back to the alley. Sure enough, Zhang's truck is gone and the security gate is down and locked. "How'd he get away?" Charlie asks. "The sun's up-it's not even cloudy."

"I'm guessing he used some clever, high-tech vampy method to defeat that. Like, you know, a tarp over his head. Or maybe one of those newfangled umbrella gizmos."

Charlie grunts in annoyance. "Right. And now we have no idea where he's gone."

"Someplace dark, I'd guess. But yeah, there are all sorts of places he could hole up. So much for a preemptive strike."

"For our side, anyway."

I think about that. We've got hours to kill until our meeting with Cassiar ... but there's only one bed-and-breakfast in town. "Maybe not. Maybe we just need to change targets."

"Sure. You know of another vampire in town, or are we hunting werewolves now? Because I'm a little low on silver."

I shake my head. "No, I'm thinking more along the lines of the mysterious Mr. Cassiar. We could surprise him with an unexpected visit at the B-and-B."

"I thought you wanted a public meet."

"That's the safe way to do it. But fortune favors the bold, right?"

"Fortune favors the survivors, Jace. They're the ones that are still around afterward to write down pithy little sayings and stick them in cookies so they can be quoted by people about to do stupid, dangerous things."

"Are you agreeing with me or not? I can't tell."

He sighs, and hefts the duffel bag on his shoulder into a more comfortable position. "Neither can I. Let's just go-if I haven't turned around by the time we get there, I guess I'm sticking around."

I grin. "Now you're talking."

The B-and-B is typical. Far too typical. In fact, if there were an ultimate example of a B-and-B, some kind of perfect, iconic version that exemplified not only everything Bed but also everything Breakfast, then this place looks like three of those smushed together. With extra gables sprinkled on top.

We stop in front and stare at it. "This place has always creeped me out," I say. "It's like that house on the hill Norman Bates lived in with his dead mother, only it's the house itself that's in drag."

"What? It's quaint."

"No, a dairy churn is quaint. This is quaint cubed, with cuteness bleeding from the edges. The frilly, frilly edges."

I don't really have to describe it, do I? Its curlicues have curlicues, like some kind of deranged Victorian fractal. Every surface that isn't a blinding white is a sunshiny yellow, and I know once we get inside we'll be overwhelmed by an overstuffed tidal wave of teddy bears, lace, and flower arrangements.

I grit my teeth. "No one said this was gonna be easy," I mutter, and march through the little white gate and up the porch steps.

I ring the doorbell. A tinny little version of Pachelbel's Canon plays somewhere inside. A moment later, the door opens with the tinkle of a little bell. The owner, Silas Bloom, stands there: He's a paunchy man with pale, shiny skin, thick-framed tortoiseshell glasses, and a pair of red suspenders holding up baggy tweed pants.

"Hello, Mr. Bloom. I was wondering if we could pay a visit to one of your guests."

Bloom squints at me suspiciously. "I don't have but one," he says. "Don't rightly know if he wants to be disturbed."

"Oh, he's expecting us," I say. "Mr. Cassiar, right?"

Bloom nods slowly. "Well ... I suppose so. No visitors after nine o'clock, though."

I refrain from pointing out that it's mid-afternoon. "We won't be long."

"Upstairs, first bedroom on the right."

He steps aside just enough for us to squeeze by. For someone in the hospitality industry, he's not exactly welcoming. Maybe he misread the word as hostility.

The interior is about as bad as I expected: Doilies infest every surface like some kind of embroidered fungus, there are picture frames so ornate you can't even focus on whatever they're wrapped around, and the floral pattern of the wallpaper is dense enough to smell. Going up the staircase feels like wandering into an actual thicket; I almost expect some kind of woodland creature with huge cartoon eyes to burst out of the wall and demand I sing a song.

But we make it to the top without incident. "Ready for this?" I whisper to Charlie.

"No," Charlie says. "But since you're going to do it anyway..."

I knock on the door.

It opens.

SEVEN.

David Cassiar is not what I expected.

He's much younger than I thought he'd be, for one thing-but that's only at first glance. When he smiles at me, the wrinkles around his eyes put him in his forties, not the twenty-something man I initially saw.

He's tall, well built, his skin that golden color you see in ads for tanning salons. He's blond, with deep blue eyes, and damned attractive in a daytime soap kind of way. He's wearing a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, tan pants, and no shoes at all.

"Well ... hello, Jace," he says. "This is a surprise-but a welcome one. Come on in." He beckons me inside like it's pouring rain in the hallway. "And you are?" he asks Charlie, putting out his hand.

Charlie hesitates, then shakes it. "Charlie," he says gruffly.

"Nice to meet you. I'm David Cassiar-but I guess you already know that." He chuckles, then closes the door behind Charlie. "Please, have a seat."

I glance around the room. Four-poster bed, of course. Frilly quilt, frilly pillows. Several antique chairs that seem to have been upholstered in the wallpaper's inbred offspring and then doilyed to within an inch of their overstuffed lives. I shudder. "I'll stay on my feet, thanks."

Cassiar shrugs and sits down himself, crossing his legs casually. Charlie picks a chair and occupies it like it's enemy territory. He drops the duffel bag down between his knees.