"We are watchers."

I nodded. "And what do you watch?"

"I watch you, Sam."

"Just watch?"

"Watch and protect and guide."

"Then you've done a s.h.i.tty job of it," I said suddenly, thinking of my attack seven years ago.

Ishmael kept his eyes on me. After a moment, he said, "I was with you, Sam. Always with you."

"Even while that animal attacked me?" I couldn't help the anger in my voice.

Ishmael said nothing at first, although he slowly raised a hand to his face and rubbed his jaw. He continued to stare at me. Even his minor movements were fluid and hypnotic. "Perhaps you wonder why you were not killed that night, Sam."

"Actually, I do."

"Perhaps you should know that your attacker ended many lives, Samantha. He would have ended yours, too. In fact, he was just seconds from doing so."

The so-called watcher lapsed into silence and continued rubbing his jaw. The physical movement seemed to intrigue him, and now he slowly ran his hand over his own soft lips, feeling them, using his fingertips as a painter would a sable-tipped brush. I had the impression Ishmael rarely manifested in the physical.

I was about to speak, but suddenly found speaking difficult. I was back to that moment in the park, experiencing again the unG.o.dly strength of the thing that had attacked me, the blast of pain of being hurled against a tree...the fear of being pounced on by something so much stronger than me. Yes, I should have been dead many times over. So, instead of speaking, I thought: You saved me.

Ishmael briefly paused in his exploration of his face. "It wasn't your time."

"Then why let me get attacked at all? Why let me get turned into...this thing?"

"Fair questions, Sam, but we are not quite the guardian angels as you think of us. Not the static lighted angel on top of your Christmas tree, a.s.sembled by small children in an Asian country. Not the Michelangelo-ish ones painted on ceilings of cathedrals or glorified in Christmas carols and hymns galore. Not the ones in old movies on TV, getting our wings every time someone rings a bell. Not those angels. Not."

"Then what the h.e.l.l are you?"

"Think of us as custodians of destiny."

I blinked, processing that. "You help fulfill destinies?"

He nodded. "I helped you fulfill your destiny, Sam."

"And my destiny was to become a vampire?"

"Your destiny was to become immortal. Vampirism was one way to achieve that."

"So, I chose this life?"

"You did."

"Why?"

"I'm not at liberty to say."

"Why not?"

"You are not ready for the answer."

I fought through my frustration. "Will I ever find the answer?"

"Yes, someday."

I drummed my fingers along my desk, my thick nails clicking loudly. They sounded fiendish, like the claws of something dark and slimy moving quickly over the floor. I said, "So, in effect, the moment I turned into a vampire, the moment I became immortal myself, you were out of a job."

"That's correct, Sam."

"So, what have you been doing these past seven years?"

"Watching you, Sam. Always watching you."

"Why?"

He looked away, and as he did so, he looked very, very human. And even a little uncomfortable. He kept looking away as he spoke. "Because I'm in love with you, Samantha Moon."

Chapter Ten.

You there, Fang?

I'm always here for you, Moon Dance.

Oh, cut the c.r.a.p. Half the time, you've got a woman over there.

Not as frequently as you think, Moon Dance. And not since we've met.

But that was over six months ago.

It was.

But why?

It seems the right thing to do. Besides, I've lost interest in dating in general.

Since you met me?

That might have something to do with it, Moon Dance. But don't flatter yourself. Perhaps it was time for me to slow down, to take stock of who I am and what I want in life.

You want to be a vampire.

There was a short pause before he wrote: Among other things.

I did not have to dip very far into Fang's mind to know he was referring to me. Truth be known, I didn't much enjoy dipping into Fang's mind. His mind was not healthy, although he was doing an admirable job of dealing with his many issues. I found it ironic that the one mind I was most linked to was a deeply troubled one.

I felt him probing my mind in return and let him do it, giving him access of the events of the night before. A moment later, his words appeared in the IM chat box.

You have got to be kidding, Moon Dance.

I'm not.

Now I have to compete with a freakin' angel, too?

Despite myself, I laughed. I wrote: You're not competing with anyone, Fang. I'm with Kingsley. Happily with Kingsley.

Is that what you told Captain Ahab?

Ishmael, I wrote. And yes. After I spent about three minutes getting over my shock...and another two minutes convincing myself I wasn't dreaming, I told him I was happily with Kingsley.

And how did he take it?

He laughed and said he was infinitely patient, that we had all eternity.

Since when do angels cavort with vampires?

He calls himself a watcher.

Either way. I don't like it, Moon Dance.

I didn't think you would.

I need to look into this.

I figured you would.

Was he handsome?

I thought about it, still reeling from the encounter, still wondering if this was all some elaborate practical joke, and, as always, still wondering if I was still back at the hospital, lying comatose after my attack seven years ago. For now, though, I recalled Ishmael's emerald eyes and quiet strength...and the love that emanated from him seemingly unconditionally.

I thought about it some more, then wrote: He was radiant.

Ah, s.h.i.t.

Chapter Eleven.

I was back at Charlie's single-wide mobile home. Or, rather, standing just outside it.

It was evening and the mobile home park was mostly quiet. I could smell fish frying and meats baking. TV sets glowed in many of the mobile homes. Outside the window in question, where the blinds were a little too narrow and the curtains were a little too thin, I paused and took in the scene.

The area between Charlie's home and the home next to his was covered in white gravel and seemed to serve as a small parking lot. There was also a path that led between the two homes. The path seemed to connect one side of the park to the other. The path led just outside the window in question.

Amazingly, there were no flood lights here, and the whole s.p.a.ce was blanketed in darkness. It would have been easy enough for someone to pause outside the window and watch Charlie with his safe.

A narrow road curved through the mobile home park, which cars occasionally sped along, heedless of children, pets, Santa's reindeer or vampires.

The question was: who had been watching Charlie?

Still standing next to Charlie's mobile home, listening to a cacophony of "It's a Holly, Jolly Christmas," TV news anchormen, video game explosions and the clanking of dishes, I closed my eyes and expanded my consciousness out through the park. A trick I had learned a few months ago. In my mind's eye, I saw glimpses of men in Christmas tree print boxers, women in tubs of vanilla bubbles, most of them shaving their legs, and even an older couple getting frisky under the covers. I saw teens playing Xbox and even grown men playing Xbox. I saw men and women talking excitedly, pa.s.sionately, agitatedly. I saw children crying and playing, but mostly crying and being warned that Santa was still making his list of naughty and nice children. I saw sumptuous dinners being eaten in front of TVs tuned into Donna Reed and Jimmy Stewart but rarely at dinner tables. Gather round the TV, all ye faithful.

I also saw four young men sitting together in the living room of one of the nearby double wide mobile homes. The young men were sitting around bags of weed and the occasional bag of crack cocaine. I saw guns in waistbands and a lot of bad att.i.tudes. There was no sign of Christmas in their house, nor Hanukkah, nor Kwanzaa. A dead giveaway, for sure. No holiday cheer or spirit at all. Of any sort.

My consciousness snapped back, leaving me briefly dis...o...b..bulated. What I hadn't seen was the stolen safe, but I figured the drug dealers' home was as good a place to start as any.

Chapter Twelve.

I knocked on the drug dealers' front door.

I listened with a small grin to the frantic sounds of weed and crack being hidden in everything from toilets to cookie jars, to no doubt deep inside boxers and briefs. I heard a chair fall over. I heard someone curse under his breath. I heard the sounds of shushing and the running of footsteps.

I was tempted to yell, "Police" and really listen to the fireworks within. I might even hear a window crash as one of them makes a run for it.

Instead, I waited, rocking gently back and forth, hands behind my back, just a five foot, three-inch mother of two confronting your neighborhood drug dealers.

My alarm system was jangling, but I mostly ignored it. I knew, after all, what I was walking into.

Finally, I heard footsteps cautiously approach the door.

An acne-covered Caucasian face peered at me through the door's dirty curtain. The face frowned, and then looked almost comically left and right before he partially opened the door.

"Excuse me," I said. "But my car broke down and I was wondering if I could borrow your phone?"

"My phone? Yo, f.u.c.k off, b.i.t.c.h. This ain't no Triple f.u.c.king A." And he promptly slammed the door in my face.

Or tried to.

I stuck out my hand, and the door rebounded off it so hard that it slammed back into the drug dealer's face. I followed the swinging door in, pushing harder. The young punk reached for his nose and for something under his shirt. And since I didn't feel like getting shot tonight, I caught his hand in mid-reach, twisted until he dropped to both knees, and grabbed what he'd been reaching for under his shirt.