Frey's home is like his classroom - stark and monochromatic. We enter through a foyer devoid of furniture, though it's big enough for several pieces, and pass into the living room. The walls, the furniture, and the carpet all echo the same color - gray, a shade as elusive as smoke. No art on the walls. No books with colorful jackets. Nothing in the room to break the monotony except rainbows of light that skitter into the room from a dozen small globes hung from a balustrade on the deck outside. The deck faces due west, and I imagine the colorful light show must perform its dance from morning to night.

It's nice, isn't it? Frey's tone is a purr. The moment I walked into this place, I knew it was exactly what I wanted. The sun all day long.

His face is turned to the window, uplifted, his eyes closed.

In that moment, I see the cat in his nature as clearly as if he'd completed the shapeshift he'd begun in his classroom. I wonder if he curls up in front of that window and - I clear my head of that disturbing thought before the image becomes too clear and Frey picks up on it.

What else do I know about cats? Isn't there something about the way they see color - or more precisely, the way they don't see color? Explains the monochromatic themes of his home and classroom and something else.

Is that why you don't drive? You can't distinguish colors?

He's followed my line of reasoning and replies with a deliberate roll of his shoulders, his face remains tilted to the sun. Part of the reason. It's not that I can't distinguish colors exactly, though the subtleties are lost on me. But I have no desire to drive. The highways here are always congested and the people who use them drive like maniacs. I hire someone who takes me to and from school and since I live right across from a shopping mall, I rarely need other transportation.

He rouses himself to face me. Would you like to see the rest of the place?

I nod and he beckons me to follow him. He leads me down a hall with two closed doors, one on either side, and stops in front of the door on the left. He opens it and gestures me through.

It's a library, simply furnished with floor to ceiling bookcases on three walls, two comfortable easy chairs with goosenecked reading lamps perched behind them, and a small table in between. This room reflects the teacher in Frey. The shelves are lined with literary classics whose covers are worn and in some cases, cracked and peeling. There is a subtle odor - the kind you smell in antiquarian bookstores - dust, old paper, the perfume of aged leather.

I run a finger along the spines of the closest shelf. Expensive collection for a high school teacher. Are these all first editions?

He smiles but says nothing.

He seems to be waiting for me to make some kind of move. I shrug at his non-response and reach for one of the books. A copy of Rebecca . I open it to the first pages and read, "Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again." But something isn't right. I hold the book closer to my eyes. Is it a trick of light or my imagination? The words seem to float above the paper rather than being imprinted upon it. I look up at Frey.

Again he smiles and nods toward the book in my hands.

When I look back at the page, the letters are fading like a blackout in a movie, and in their place, some kind of strange markings have emerged.

Frey, what is this?

He takes the book from my hand, laughing at my startled reaction. It's my security system.

What do you mean?

He fans the pages gently. If you were human, you would see nothing except the Du Maurier text. Because you are not, you see what really is.

Which is?

Frey closes the book. His fingers trace the top of the binding while his eyes sweep the shelves. These are my textbooks.

Textbooks? The writing looks like ancient hieroglyphics. Are these textbooks on Egyptian history? Logical, I guess, considering how they felt about cats.

He laughs, but I suspect it's not at the humor in what I've said, but the absurdity.

No. Not Egyptian history. This book, he  hefts it, It's a text on locator spells.

Locator spells? I glance around the room. All these books are about magic?

And very dangerous stuff in the wrong hands.

You mean human hands?

His eyes grow dark.

I let my gaze wander over the shelves. There must be two hundred volumes, all bearing the names of modern classics. How did you come to be in possession of such a collection?

He sighs. It was a legacy. Like how you came by Avery's property.

He says it with quiet nonchalance, as if everyone knows about Avery and me.

But I know that isn't true. A cold knot twists the pit of my stomach.

How do you know about Avery and me? What do you know about us?

Again, the shrug that ripples his shoulders and seems to shake off my questions. But after a moment, he does reply. The supernatural community is close-knit. We hear things. If you took the time to learn more about us, you'd know that.

I've been a vampire for less than three months, but I've learned one important thing. Secrecy is the key to staying alive. I thought the only ones who knew of my nature were Culebra and Williams and now, Frey. And the half dozen or so members of a shadowy group known as the Revengers who seek out vampires to kill them. But Avery set the Revengers upon me and they haven't bothered me since his death. The realization that there are others out there who know what I am scares me more than a little.

Frey picks up on all this. No one who knows of your true nature would try to hurt you. Avery was an anomaly. An aberration.

That observation provokes a bitter laugh. Frey, the truth is, anomalies and aberrations are what we are, too, you and I. The only way I can face each new day is to keep reminding myself that I have a family who loves me and of the good I can do with these powers. I suspect it's the same with you, since you are a teacher.

His eyes warm, and his mouth curves in a wry smile. That's the first personal thing you've said to me. I think you are beginning to trust me, Anna Strong.

I'm not and it's not at all what I intended. I hold up my hands.

Don't kid yourself. I'm not that easily won. And we seem to be getting sidetracked from the reason I'm here. I gesture to the book in his hand. You said that book was a book on locator spells. Could we use it to find Trish?

We can try. I need something of hers to hold while I work the spell. Do you have anything with you?

Only a photograph. Her mother gave it to me last night. Will that do?

Frey shakes his head. Only if she was the last one who touched it.

I'd already reached into my purse to withdraw the picture. With a shrug, I slip it back inside. Okay. Maybe the picture won't work. But I'll get something else. What type of thing works best?

Anything personal. Frey turns to return the book to the shelf. Nailclippings. A lock of hair.

Trish's hairbrush. Carolyn brought it over to my parent's house last night. Did she leave it? I don't remember. But I'll certainly find out.

I'll get you something. Can I come back later?

Of course. I want to find Trish, too. Come back as soon as you can. I'll be home all evening.

He follows me as I retrace my steps to the front door. I'm searching the bottom of my purse for the car keys when my cell phone rings. I snatch the keys up with one hand, and the phone with the other.

"Hello?"

"Anna?"

I recognize David's voice. "Hey. Sorry I've been gone so long. What's up?"

There's just the briefest of hesitations before he says. "Can you get out to the beach house?"

My heart jumps. The last time he asked me that, the place was burning to the ground. "Jesus. What's wrong?"

He hesitates again and another spasm of alarm races up my spine. "David? What's going on?"

He exhales loudly into the phone. "It may be nothing. I just got a call from that dentist who lives next door to you at the beach. He left a message at the office this morning, but when he hadn't heard from you, he called my cell. He says he saw a light in the cottage last night. He went to investigate, but the door was locked. The place seemed secure so he didn't call the police. He thought you should know because of what happened before. If you want, Max and I can meet you there. We'd go ourselves but at the moment we've got our hands full with Jake."

When he mentions Jake's name, I hear a scuffling in the background and something that sounds like "fuck you." There's a moment of dead air and then David is back. "Anyway, we're on our way to SDPD to turn him in."

I hitch my purse up around my shoulder. I don't have to ask why my neighbor called David and not me. He's the type that refers to women as "little ladies". "Finish up with Jake," I tell David. "I'll go on out to the cottage."

"Do you want to wait for us?"

"No." I know from experience how long the paperwork can take. "I'm sure it's nothing. I'll see you and Max back at the office."

I hang up and turn to Frey. "I have to go. I'll try to get back tonight, but it may be late."

He nods and opens the front door to allow me to pass through. "I hope there's nothing wrong at your home."

He has picked the story out of my head. I should be used to it by now, but it irks me. It's dumb and childish, but I turn the tables. I look him square in the eyes, smile, and conjure up the image I remember from a long ago trip to the zoo. It involved a randy old lion and his less than enthusiastic cage mate.

I don't get the reaction I want. In fact, Frey's reaction is far from embarrassment. Sexual energy blazes out and I feel my own face flush hot.

I hear him laugh as he shuts the door.